Yes I am always writing about him these days. I shouldn’t say it’s “for” him because my existence or non existence doesn’t make a difference any more to him. I am writing this for me. So that I can let go of him. It’s more of getting rid of painful memories. And I say painful not because the memories were sad but because they were so great that it hurts unimaginably when I face reality.
The thin line between truth and make belief is fading,to be honest. I cannot make out which is truer- what was or what is. So the day when he said there never was an us, I got shaken up from my trance. “Us” didn’t imply a romantic relationship for me. Not the going out on dates and having candle light dinners, not the hours staring into each other’s eyes and holding hands. “Us” was never physical for me. It was beyond. It was the comfort I got when I shared my fears and thoughts at 3 am in the night. It was the relief that I got when I saw those double ticks and checked his last seen. It was all those silences he shared with me that I put it into words. “Us” for me was all that and more. But then what he said maybe was a fact. There never really was an us. There was just a “me” revolving around “him”, sucking him into a vortex of me-ness. And so I stopped pining and stopped trying to get back to him, because I was standing in front of this question- who am I fighting for? What was I trying to get back?
I write for him not because I need another excuse to cry some more. I write because the memories we made together,the moments he gave me were so beautiful and genuine that I want to preserve them unadulterated. I do not want to doubt whether they were true, whether when he said “I care” he really meant it, whether we really were best friends. I want to preserve the memory of what and how I came to know him. Because I don’t recognize him any more. He seems so distant and cold and there’s so much aloofness just like the gap between our desks. And this scares me. Because even now I can’t put him out of my mind.I don’t think twice before booking a cab at 9:30 in the night to get his work done even though that means running out of my medical supplies. Even now I defend him and put my career at stake so that he stays in the good books. Even now I feel a twitch in my heart when he leaves without saying. I feel scared because I feel I am doing all this for a stranger. I feel so disconnected from him. I can’t look him in the eye most of the times, because when I do I start searching for that lost 74, and I can’t locate him and I get heart broken.
I am so tired of living a lie everyday that I want to write the truth. I want to stop hating myself for crying myself to sleep over him every night. I can’t define my emotions for him but I can’t deny them either. All I know is that every time I see him,my memories die a little and I want to hold on to them.
It’s almost June, it’s almost 1 year since that night. I keep thinking how everything has changed between us,and how some things are still the same. I do not understand things any more. I do not understand the difference between love and sympathy. Everything seems to be plastic. Happiness, sadness, love, anger, confinement..nothing makes any sense to me.
I am in ruins. And I think I am a very horrible person which is why people abandon me.
He named us 74 and 105. But funnily there was never an us.
I owe him because he gave me a pain so unbearable that helped me manage the bruises I gave myself thinking about my ideal person. I loved that man. But I don’t think I can feel him any more now. How do you feel a chapped skin when your entire arm is missing? 74 made me an amputee while I was thinking of how to nurse a broken skin.
It’s my inability that I can’t write anything else. I write a lot these days, always scribble something or the other. Same emotions, different expressions. I have been writing a lot ever since I re-discovered him a year back. I can’t help that his memories keep.haunting me. What do you do with all your emotions when suddenly the man it was for decides to change? I think I’m going a little crazy (that’s what he used to refer to me as always) because when he is in front of me I find hope and despair. The latter in him and the hope in his memories. I carry his memories with me all the time,when together or when alone. It’s become my second skin.
I want to write something else, but I can’t.