Tajo Chronicles: A Reprise (Part 3)

Episode Three - Goodbye.

I am practically running because I'm starting to get late for our dinner. I don't want to keep you waiting. I'm sure you want this done and over as much as I do.

“Are you mad?”, you ask without so much of a hi or a hello as I'm settling in my seat. 

You came to the place ahead of me. It's the same pasta restaurant where we had dinner that night I officially became your boyfriend. As I look in the neon sign and that red plaid table cloth, a feeling of familiarity creeps in. You even managed to get reservations to the table where we had dinner the last time, the exact same one outside. I can't help but notice the aroma of fresh pasta cooking and the smell of the outside air—a combination of smoke and monsoon breeze signifying the much awaited break from the long dry spell. On top of the array of indistinct smells is the sound of distant traffic of the metro. All of them, sight, sound and smell are mere repetitions of memory. Yet unlike before, we are sitting here under different circumstances and with different emotions. This is certainly a bad case of déjà vu.

I look at you and at your hands across the table. They're lying there palms down, resting, as if almost trying to reach mine. I look down and see both my hands clasped into a ball of fist at my lap. They're trembling. I try my best to keep my nerves rested so you can't see through me and how I’m wound up like a jack-in-a-box, erratic and just waiting to explode. I have always been bad at keeping emotions at bay—I am, as you have always told me, an open book of feelings. I laugh heartily when I see something funny. I cry at the most mundane scenes in a tear-jerker movie. I express fears openly. And you have always liked that about me. I'm never ashamed of how honest I am with my feelings—until now. I feel like I'm being betrayed by my own emotions, unable to conceal how I'm feeling  at this moment. As if my body and my lack of control is trying to take away any last shreds of pride I have for myself.

You notice I'm not looking and so you ask me again,

“Are you mad?”, you  really want to cut right to the chase.  

I examine your voice as you say those words. I want to hear if there are any hints of feelings that might have covered the insensitive question you have just uttered. How dare you ask me that? After what you put me through? After leaving me dry and hanging in mid-air? After not hearing from you for almost a month, you have the nerve to ask if I'm mad at you? Oh boy, you got some nerve. But I don’t want to give you the satisfaction of knowing how much you hurt me. I couldn't live with myself if I show you my vulnerable side right now. I don’t want you to win, not in a million years buddy. I want to hold on to any minuscule of dignity I have left.

I know it's rude of  me to not answer someone’s question, especially if it's already been asked twice. So with all self-control I can muster, I close my eyes. I let out a breath of exasperation to try to calm myself. I imagine all the people around us as though they are mere sketches in an old painting because the last thing I need is their distraction. The clinking of their platters and their silver spoons and forks; their humdrum chitchats and their laughs—all of these I'm trying to tune out in my head. Because nothing else matters in the world right now but what I am about to say.

“No. I’m not mad.”

I try to sound as neutral and nonchalant about it as possible. I want it to sound monotonic, without any emotions at all, so you’ll know how I’m capable of moving on without you or without the concept of an “us”. I don't want those words to sound needy and pathetic.  I certainly don’t need a pity party, especially from you. I’m a big boy now. I can roll with the punches.

And it isn't a total lie either. I’m really not mad at you, well not anymore.

I look at those expectant eyes, and a feeling of familiarity sweeps over me. Looking at them put me back a few weeks ago when I was looking at those same brown eyes under a different light. In the still dimness of your room, as we finished a moment of passionate tryst, I looked into those gazes and I knew that I wanted to look at those eyes each night from now on. But looking at them right now, I realize it’s not meant to happen, as those same brown eyes have tricked me. I didn’t know that they felt nothing for me. They felt no sense of physical attraction towards me at all. Right now, as I look at them I see those eyes are that of a liar.

After we had sex, I noticed that things became different between you and me. Before, if you didn’t hear from me for half a day I could literally feel how worried you were. There was a time when my cell phone died and I wasn’t able to text you the whole day while I was out, and I came home to a barrage of worried texts messages and missed calls. As apologetic as I was to you back then, I couldn’t help but feel good about it because I know how worried you were. It felt good to be needed by someone. To be wanted and to have that feeling that someone would light up knowing you came home safely. But gone were those days. Gone were the messages of concern you had for me before. Your replies became an obligation you have to keep under the clause of still being in a relationship. When I asked you how your usual day went, you answered with either one or two-syllable words—and that is if I was lucky, that is if you replied at all. But I let that slide, knowing that being in a relationship is not all roses. There are times when the moments of euphoric rush subside and you become normal people again with busy lives. Maybe you’re tired from work—I told myself that a million times just to have a sense of explanation as to why you weren't as sweet and passionate to me as you were before.

And then there were also the fact that you didn’t want to make time for me anymore. When you went home to your folks, I didn’t hear from you for a weekend. But I tried to rationalize that it was OK, since there was a storm back then and I thought that the power was out for you to charge your phone. When you came back to the city, I wanted to fetch you from the bus terminal. Because I missed you and I wanted to be with you after a week of not seeing each other, and I hoped you missed me enough to finally spend time with me again. But you brushed me off. And when I asked you if you missed me, you said “No”. Was that even a proper response to your boyfriend whom you haven’t seen for a week? But I guess it was my fault too, as it was one of the early the signs and I chose to ignore it.

I was even madder at myself than to you. It was partly my fault. Maybe I wanted this so badly to work out that I became blind to what was already obvious. It was a classic stage of someone in denial. Was I that desperate?

“Good. That’s good to hear. So how have you been?” you even manage a half-crooked smile upon asking that.

“OK.” 

I stare at you with a blank expression and you reciprocate with a somewhat puzzled look at my response. It's very unlikely of me to be succinct in words as I love to talk and express what I think.  That's actually one of the things you told me you like about me, how I was never out of things to say and that I was rich with expressions. But I’m not going to indulge you on the things you like tonight. And as far as I can tell I'm still breathing, I'm still alive. So that means OK in my book. No further explanation is needed. See? I’m not lying to you right now.

And as with all confrontations such as these, come  the awkward silence. I hear the room come alive as we bathe in this calm of uneasiness that has been hovering between us ever since we first sat down. Neither of us want to let our guards down and initiate the conversation. The lull seems to go on forever.

You decide to break the ice. You can't stand the silence and the awkwardness.  You're beginning to feel uncomfortable and I can see you are fidgeting in your seat. I certainly will not be your host for the night, no sir. Relishing in the thought that I am making you uncomfortable is a sign of sweet victory. A victory I so long for. A victory I need.

“You know Al, I’m really sorry...you have to know that.” 

I nod.

“It wasn’t my intention to hurt you.”

Crap, loads and loads of bull. If you didn’t intend to hurt me how come you had to lie? Worse, how can you pretend and tell me that you don’t look into physical things when you yourself can’t get past the fact that I’m not what you pictured me to be? Am I just some sorry-ass excuse to get laid and relieve yourself from your carnal cravings? Or did you even force that too? Fuck you.

“I know”, I say softly.

You are about to say something but I cut you off by saying,  “but you did...” .

I want those words to sting.  I want them sharp as knives as they stab you hard as they can. Because truth is, as much as I don't want to admit it to myself, you did hurt me.


You lied. You toyed with my emotions. You misled me into believing that you are something you're not. And worse, I waited for you to explain yourself to me.  Lord knows I wanted to give you a second chance. After our last argument, when you finally admitted the truth that you are not attracted to me at all, you begged me to give you a second chance. You wanted to sort things out for yourself and said that you can’t just lose me like this. Despite how I was angry at you at that time, I figured you’re still confused about how you felt and I promised to give you a leeway. I said that once you figured out what you wanted, you can talk to me. I held on to the belief that in a few days you would see your errors and explain yourself. I wanted to believe that you will be able to see past all things physical and you would beg for my forgiveness and come back, but that never happened. I waited, thinking that the person who sent me that private message months ago would come back. The smart, sweet, sensitive person who wanted me for me, not for the concept of me.  I waited days, weeks but not a single indication, not a single word from you. You chose to disappear from me. I waited still. I even texted you while you were in Thailand if I was waiting for something. I wanted to believe there was still something worth fighting for, if it is still worth it to wait for you. But instead of answering a simple question, you replied with a meaningless text asking me to come to your friends’ party. That was the last straw.

But I had enough waiting.  I became tired of waiting for something that’s never going to happen.

Nothing is happening. No one is touching their food. The pasta swimming in white oil and the garlic bread are still lying on the plates exactly as how the waiter had left them. The refreshments are starting to form little globules of condenses around the glass. The napkin is still folded. We are like two marble statues sitting in the middle of a circus, lifeless and looking out of place, trapped in an eternal pose while the others around us are fully animated.

I can tell you’re struggling for words. You half-open your mouth in an attempt to verbalize something and then midway you hesitate and shut your lips close. Every time you start to say something you will look at me and then stop.  But I realize no matter how eloquent your words would be, or how profound your sorry would sound, they can never undo the damage your lying has done.

After realizing that you have nothing more to say, I give you one last look; my eyes to your eyes. I'm trying to see past the anger and the hurt and the lying to see if I can still fix this. If there is still a you and me, but there isn’t. I want to believe that this is still worth it, but everything tells me it ain't. And as much as I want to deceive my feelings, I can’t. I can’t feel anything towards you anymore.  At this very moment, it's like someone doused off the fire I once felt for you. Looking at those brown eyes, I want to feel all the passion I had for you before. But as I'm looking at you, sitting across this table, amid the smell of cold pasta and the sound of neighboring silverware,  I realize that I don’t remember who you are or who you used to be...not anymore. No, I don’t recognize you at all. I'm now looking at a stranger.

I realize that this is it; this is how we will end.

Finally, I can say goodbye and admit it's really over.