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She thought she had it all; and she did, she really, really did, until one day she didn’t.
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It was all banter and jokes. Some even envied them for having such a platonic relationship, and she’d always laugh at the people who told them that because that’s the silliest thing ever, we practically shared diapers, of course we’re platonic!
She thinks he thinks the same thing. She was wrong, though. (But she didn’t know that. She always thinks she’s right, because honestly, most of the time she is. This is actually the first time she was wrong about something. He’d never tell her that though. Probably because it’d hurt her. And he’d never want to hurt her. That’s the last thing he’d do. Oh, also because it would ruin them: both of them.)
So he pretends – for as long as he could, for as long as he manages to – that she’s right.
-
The day he’d feared came a little after they’d spent the afternoon together: huddled in the sofa of an empty den watching romantic movies that were too cliché for anyone’s liking (“Hey, I love that flick!” she’d always protested) on a rainy Sunday. This was what they usually did, sometimes even hand in hand, air filled with a mixed scent of different perfumes they’d used, body parts intertwined against one another. And it meant nothing to her. But for him, this felt different. He’d always felt different, like how she’d always been oblivious, but this feeling tugged more strings that usual. And that – well, he thinks that meant he had to start moving.
-
It was a Tuesday (God, he hates Tuesdays), when it all came crumbling to his feet, right in front of his own eyes.
So in a two-day span (shortest he could do without leaving anything – absolutely any detail, even the smallest ones – behind), he primed for what will either be the best or worst day of his life.
He had practiced all day, tried saying it in front of his sister, and his mom, and even to strangers. (Some weren’t happy about it. Others gave him warning looks. Not like he cared – at all.) Besides, he knew every word by heart. So when he finally decided he could do it in front of her, or when it felt like he could form normal sentences and not just a big blob of random words that made no absolute sense, he looked for his phone which took longer for him to find that usual. He thinks it’s a sign, tells his mom it is, (and thankfully) she brushes it off, saying there’s no such thing as signs; air-quoting the final word. He hopes she’s right.
When he finally found his newly bought phone, which by the way cost a fortune, he keyed in the numbers he’d memorized by heart. She picked up even before the third ring, all giddy and enthusiastic, like she usually is, and agreed on coming later that night.
He thinks things are finally looking up for him. He thought wrong, though. (Too bad no one told him what he thought was wrong. It was always him who guided people and sometimes he hated himself for taking on such role. He wishes he could tell himself to stop when he wasn’t doing the right thing anymore – quite like expecting her to love him back the way he does, and did all these years. Thing is, it’s not easy. Love, alone, was not easy. But he thinks it’s worth it in the end – if there was even a proper end to their relationship, or friendship, rather, which was now at stake. And he prays to God it is, because he’d spent all his life chasing after something he knows he didn’t even deserve, because she was too good for him. He thinks.)
Hours and hours had already gone, but he waited. And waited. And waited. And he started to think waiting sucks, because it honestly does. He still waited, though, but she never came. He doesn’t know why, doesn’t ask, doesn’t need to. Maybe she knew it all along and decided to ditch to save herself from saying she doesn’t like me back, he thinks.
Funny though, because he liked thinking. He thought all the time. About himself, about her, about life, about love, about the smallest of things; but he never thought he could actually be wrong about the only thing he’s ever been so sure about. Who was he to never be wrong anyways? She was once wrong. She, whom he thinks is perfect, was once wrong. He’d probably been wrong the whole time.
It was a Wednesday (and now he hates Wednesdays too) when he stopped waiting, got up, and left.
-
He never heard from her ever again since then until one day (one dark, cloudy Thursday; the day he prepared for long gone), she texted.
I know I did something I shouldn’t have done and I’m sorry. I really am. Please give me another chance. I’ll go to the fifth block again tonight, and I’ll wait for you. Come, but only if you want to. If you still want me in your life. But not that way. Not that way, please. I can’t afford to lose you, but I don’t see you that way either. You must understand. See you (hopefully). xxxxxx
-
She goes to the fifth block, sits on the cold pavement, and waits.
Five hours felt like a long mile of forever and another run of eternity, the breeze getting colder by the second. She thinks he’ll come. He always does.
Two more hours went by, and probably a dozen and a half cars plus the community trucks, he still wasn’t there. She thinks he’s running late, he possibly is because he’s doing something important and getting ready and eating late dinner maybe and because she’s right. She can’t be wrong about that, she’s always right.
It’s the ungodly hour of two in the morning when the skies decide to cry – more like whimper, really – and it;
Well, it takes her all the king’s men and slave horses to admit that he’s never coming.
It’s a Friday when she gets up, leaves, and thinks it’s time for both of them to move on.
She thinks he decided not to show up and move on. And perhaps she’s right, because she always is.