We’re always running. And once, you told me that when we run, we feel infinite—that we are what our bodies are made of: galaxies and stardusts. You said running made you feel alive—like everything in your life is falling into place, like the puzzles finally fit.
I asked you, “What puzzle?”
You said, “Life.”
– – –
We’re always chasing after the dark. It’s funny—people run away from the dark, but we bask in it like the darkness—its nothingness—is its own glow. It’s as if it is in the darkness itself where we see light. It felt like the few seconds we needed in order to adjust our eyes in the dark. And after that, we feel okay despite being surrounded by the unseen, the unrecognizable.
You and I—we’ve always been different; we’ve always turned on that weird spark—that weird light that only us could see. We find beauty in the unique, and we revel on it.
– – –
We’re always screaming into the void. Because every breath we exhale is an effort we put in to release every bit of negativity that invaded our soul. Because when we scream into the void, we felt free—like no one’s watching, like the world is ours, like we’re in our own little haven.
“We’re the crazy ones,” you once told me.
I smiled at you and whispered, “We’ll change the world, you’ll see.”
– – –
We’re always leaping—into the unknown, into the uncomfortable. I was scared to step out of my box, but you said that I’ll never fully live if I stay in it. So, I took three steps forward, your hand waiting just two steps away.
And you reached out for my hand and I thought to myself, “This isn’t so bad.”
– – –
We’ve always understood the impermanence of things—of pain, of sadness, and even that of happiness. We’ve laid out the groundwork for our own pathway towards happiness.
You said, “It’s simple—we take life as it is. We do not pressure ourselves to be who we are not.”
“But what if we want more?” I asked.
“We will always want more. But life is a paradox—we want what we can’t have.”
“But what if we get what we want?”
“Then, you are one of the lucky ones.”
– – –
We were lying on a field of dandelions, stargazing with the wind coming at us just a little too strong. The quiet was comforting, and I am slowly drifting away, falling asleep in the arms of peace. Then, I heard you whisper, “Maybe this is it.”
I softly whispered back, “What is?”
You said, “It’s time I step out of my box.” With sadness in your eyes, you said, “You are my box.”
I said nothing, and the almostness of all the things left unsaid creates a zigzag line in the middle of my heart. I can keep on waking up in the middle of the night, wondering about the what-ifs and could-have-beens of our almost-relationship. But I no longer find myself wallowing in sadness and wishing for things to be the way it was.
I have realized that in order to heal, I must create my own line of possibilities disguising themselves as the impossible. I have decided to forgive myself—for the many string of words left unspoken, for the countless phrases of love and affection left in the quiet, for the sentences so simple turned complex that were ultimately left unsaid.
And so, I do apologize for keeping my words from you. For not telling you when I felt it, when I knew—I felt you slipping away, and instead of holding on tighter, of making you stay, I ripped edges of the box and let the world steal you away.
I do not apologize for becoming your comfort in a time of chaos. I do not apologize for becoming your haven, for being the box that allowed you to fall apart without having to build walls—hiding away your softness, choosing to cover up your vulnerability, creating a surface-level strength, a facade that screams, “strong” but insides that scream hollowness.
They say that the people you love will go back to you; they say that people tend to go back to who feels like home.
Was I home to you?
Dear God, I hope I was.
I hope I am.
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