I am not the one who you would talk to when you have nothing else to talk to. I refuse to be that one. So now, I am walking away.
I am not capable of love, so one says. So let me be brutal: I am not the one for show. If you want to have one, don’t put me on as the starring cast. You have your narrative, I just don’t want to be in it.
Almost two years ago, R and I broke up. It was a dramatic night, we were yelling at each other publicly. It was humiliating. His last words to me sounded like a curse. He declared that I was not capable of love.
Maybe I was. Maybe I still am.
Few weeks ago, my GERD was on it again. I was throwing up after a tasting event. P decided to pick me up in the office. He did. It was so sweet of him. He has to buy something though so we walked towards the nearby mall. While we were walking, he held my hands. It happened very quick: I shrugged him off. His mood changed.
It was an awkward ride back home. He wasn’t talking to me. I think I was petrified after his attempt to publicly display our affection. He dropped me off. No goodbyes. He sped off.
You may say that it was just a freaking HHWW that he wanted. Maybe it was. But I am not expecting that. After all, we are not supposed to be a thing. He has issues, I had mine. We deal with them separately; but when we’re together, they seem to fade away. We may be a thing but we are not supposed to call it a thing. Publicly holding hands was too unexpected to me because that only happens during the drive– when we are alone. That wasn’t supposed to happen. I shrugged him off almost instinctively.
Now, I spent the weekend alone with only my pillows and blankets. He still hasn’t talked to me after all the desperate pleas I sent him. He is punishing me, I think. But, come on! I think it is very juvenile of him to do this to me. I don’t think I am deserving this kind of treatment.
But I think, at this point, I am afraid.