Writing to Reach You

I miss you.

You know how it would go if I try to tell you this, right? You will laugh in my virtual face at the apparent absurdity of it all, then leave me without an answer. Just that. Just a laugh with no meaning.

I love you.

Even more so with these three words. Oh, the foolishness of it all! You what? I don’t understand. I love you. Three absurd words that you never understood.

I love you. I miss you. I f---ing love you. How foolish of me to say these words again even upon knowing of their miserable fate. I said these words to the same person, expecting to receive a different answer. Ludicrous!

What makes I love you so hard to understand? We were once friends and shared a lot of friendly moments together. Remember when you’re trying to hold my hand or attempt to ask me out for lunch? Those were the times that an I love you could have been more bearable. Premature, but bearable. I knew it then, I could have said it, but I wasn’t so sure. You were too good to be true, a ready answer to my dreams.

And dreams do not easily come true, do they?

I have told this story a hundred times before to people I have bothered too much that they stopped giving a fuck. It has also come to the point when telling the stories—even the ones I treasure the most, became too old and tiring; when the sweet memories have already gone stale and lifeless.

I never wanted this to happen. I really wanted to preserve those scenes I have always kept in my mind, like when you made me your personal secretary even when I didn’t want to, or when you played with my hair and I asked you if you are gay. Those were what used to be my so-called shoes-with-wings moments (i.e. moments that made me feel like I'm flying) that I regularly play in my mind--too often that they have lost their meaning, simply because nothing else came up after that. That doesn’t change the fact that I’d give an arm to live those moments once again.

I miss you. God knows how much I miss you. I have tried everything to ease the pain and forget you but nothing seems to work. I started collecting rock band memorabilia, got into what I believe is brilliant music and shoved the ones I/we used to listen to down the forgotten pits of my music playlist (I know it's sad but I refuse to listen to Incubus anymore), even tried writing songs—but in my mind I still dream of doing them with you and being like Paul and Linda or the White Stripes. Everything reminds me of you and it’s disheartening.

It’s raining outside but my heart is heavier than the clouds. Rain falls down like heartbreak and trickles down even to things and places you don’t want to. My platonic romance with my job is now getting worn-out and I can’t appreciate anything I do. When your heart is broken, nothing else seems to matter.

Even my mom noticed my indifference. That I only care for myself—the only thing that I seem to do yet can’t do it well. If only she knew.

One of my friends told me to just cry this out. I want to, but I am afraid there are no more tears to cry. I am so tired of this—of putting my feelings to words because nothing I do seem to reach you. Nothing works. If they do, I should have known the answer to the only question I have: Do you love me too?