Midnight Stories #2: A Rainy Memory
It was only 10.15 AM but I hadn’t been in the mood for work already. I decided to move my laptop to the small table near the window, hoping for a new inspiration.
As I looked out of the window, it wasn’t inspiration that came to my mind. Instead, crowding my mind was a scene from more than 412 days ago. You would understand why I put it that way. Later.
I was a little surprise (but not so much, because I knew myself) that particular scene got replayed again in my mind. I couldn’t remember when was the last time it did.
Might be because of the rain. And the window.
Or that faint sound of Amy Winehouse’s raspy voice crooning that love was a losing game.
It had been raining too at that time. And I was looking out from a window as well. A window of a car that belonged to a man who had been given me joy and love like I had had never known before. A man who also had been shattering my heart for too many times in the 8 years 3 months we had been together.
There were only me, him, the soft humm of the car engine and the uncomfortable silence that had been hanging between us for the past few weeks.
Most of our friends would say that we were the perfect couple. Some of my girlfriends often said how they envy me for the small gestures he made for me; putting his arm around my chair; looking at me intently every time I spoke; opening doors for me; speaking to me in his soft gently manner; holding my hand every time we walked together.
Also for the grand gestures; finding a new job so he could live closer to me; surprising me with vacations.
Those were the stuffs of their dreams, they said.
I always smiled at their comments.
Some friends who knew better the ins-and-ous of our relationship reserved their compliments.
Then he said it again. I was sorry, he said softly, gently like always. Those words started to lose their meaning after the second time I had caught him cheating on me.
After the fifth time, I developed a newfound hatred for that phrase.
This time, I just simply didn’t care. He could say it a million times if it made him feel better. I’d been immune.
It wasn’t because I didn’t think that he didn’t mean it. I knew he did. Like I knew that he loved me… in the best way that he could.
I knew what you think. That I’d been delusional. That I’d been too “in love” to see what was actually happening.
I had not.
He had been saving me from my own despair, not only once or even ten times. He had sacrificed for me. A lot. More than I’d deserved.
I knew he loved me. That fact was as clear as the fact of his betrayals.
All these affairs were not about me. I had come to that conclusion a few months before the last one happened, or rather got caught. Who knew when it started.
These affairs were about him trying to fill a hole, something, in his soul. I told him so, but he never listened.
Sometimes I pitied him for cluelessly running around trying to chasing something that was so elusive.
But, those were his problems and demons to fight.
Mine was, well, a lot. One of them was I tried to be his savior. I was not. I could not. Not when he didn’t want to let me in. I knew that now.
I had my own problems and demons which I had been hiding from for too long that I did not recognize them anymore. They got tangled up in our problems. His problems.
So I told him that day that I could no longer play this game and got obliterated every time my trust was violated. I had no energy to rebuild myself every time my sense of safety was wrecked.
I needed myself for me and I didn’t have room for anything else.
That was the last time I saw him.
The months after that were hard, then it got harder, then a little easier, then harder again, then I hit the hardest time when I felt so paralyzed I barely could talk without crying, and then, finally, finally it get easier and easier.
It took 412 days for me to finally stop counting the day since the last time I saw the man who once was the definition of my happiness.
After some time, I remembered him less and less. Sometimes those flashes of him invoked a variety of feelings; hurt, regret, shame, guilt, relief. Sometimes they come and go without any trail. Like a distant memory that no longer mine.
As I was looking out of the window and reminiscing my last memory of him, of us, something unfamiliar got settled in my heart.
And hope, not for me. For him.
I hoped he found his peace as well. I hoped he was happy with who he was. I hoped he was okay.
“Midnight Stories” is a collection of my writings that are either based on true stories, or half-inspired by true events, or 100% a product of my imagination.