the weakness in me...

Call it naiveté but, yes, I fell in love with you the moment you asked for a receipt. Call me easy but, yes, you had me at the first text message.

I had someone faithfully waiting for me but I chose to see you for a moment. We merely had shakes and breakfast but to me, they meant more than your regular ham and cheese. Call it childish fancy but I had been willing to admit that then.

When I left, I knew I had to make a decision. It was an easy one to make but difficult to carry out. I had to hurt the one who had always been there, and to think that hadn’t actually done anything to deserve that. I had conscience alright. But it didn’t much serve its purpose when you came along.

Pity sunk in and minced my premeditated lines. I chose rationally. In the last minute, I chose not to see you anymore. I chose being in control.

It wasn’t easy to forget you. Neither was it easy to forgive myself for committing the grave mistake of staying with you that night. I became a wanderer. Cynicism took hold of my reasoning. I understood boys and men and their needs too much. I played along.

I played as I imagined you’d play. But the men I played weren’t like you. I had wished they were like you so that there’d be few complications and so my honed cynicism won’t be useless. I had wished they were like you so they would be easier to understand and I’d be able to determine their plans easily.

I had wished they were like you so that I’ll find my happy moment again.

I saw you – the first in a very long time. Your face was different from what I had been imagining it to be for the past three years. I figured I might have been dreaming about an entirely different person. Perhaps you were just evil in my thoughts; perhaps you weren’t evil at all. I was ecstatic: I had found you and I had no plans of losing you again.

I realized over coffee and dinner that you knew me as somebody else. Either that or I had changed drastically over our years of hibernation. You were expecting a cute girl with sparkling eyes and a hopeful smile to greet you with a peck on the cheek. You waited for a burst of energy and a handful of stories. But instead of a laughing teenager clad in a powder-blue skirt and a peasant blouse, I, in my racerback shirt and denim jacket nonchalantly stared at you.

You even brought me cigarettes which I didn’t smoke.

You asked for the little girl whom you had been with before. I told you she’s gone and you can’t fool the woman that was me anymore. I let you know that I knew all about your hedonistic tendencies and the venom in your rakish charm. I coolly informed you that I understood all too well your needs and continuously implied that I didn’t want anything more to do with you other than be your devil’s advocate or perhaps a well-respected acquaintance, whatever you fancy between the two. You kept your hands to yourself and told me I talked too much.

You were wrong. I hadn’t actually said anything. In my caution, I showed indifference. I became the cold-hearted pessimist I had been since you left. I didn’t offer you my hand. Again, I gave you myself, but this time, I was wary enough to keep the passion and tears bottled up.

I blamed the beer for my nearly committing the same mistake. I blamed my physiological seasons for the abrupt withdrawal of my surrender.

I blamed you for everything that had happened to me since we parted and for molding me into being the b*tch that I’ve been since. I blamed you for my pains.

You kissed my words away and my world fell apart.

You didn’t understand.

I couldn’t bear for you to see me after that. But fate had a classic bout of humor. I had given you my heart willingly before but situations and my very own foolishness separated us. And now when I had accepted my defeat, fate gave me an outstanding invitation to see you again. Your needs gave you substantial reasons to call for me.

Call it wishful thinking, but I’ve always imagined us finally being together – with me unhindered by any worry, not bothered by spells of insecurity and fear. I’ve always kept my hopes up for an eternity with you. It became the thought that would keep me out of depression. I would entertain myself and whoever would listen with my wishful interpretation of ‘our’ story. But in my solitude, I knew I wasn’t part of your life.

I’ve long been deluding myself that you loved me – even for a single moment in our past – and that in the end, it would be me and you. And I’ve long realized that there’s neither much truth nor hope to those notions. I’ve told myself over and over again that I won’t care for you.

But you remain to be the indelible weakness in me. I end up giving myself all over again.

And you always end up needing me for a mere moment again.

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