It’s been six months now since the last day I wrote about you. I saw the notebook where I wrote it, and was amazed when I realized the date it was written— 26th of ***, and today was also 26th, exactly six months ago.
You see, it has been six months ago, but somehow, I still feel the same as when I wrote those words then. Funny how I wrote there that I would need three or four months to finally forget and move on, but still, I am here— writing again.
At some point before, I actually did it. I was somehow able to forget. All those busy days working on my business— it all managed to keep me away from thinking often about your memories. Although, they still seemed to creep their way back to my mind stubbornly.
And the pandemic happened. Of course, there was no doubt I was going to remember it all. Most of the time now.
I have been talking to the moon, the stars, the sky, about you. Sometimes, I talk to you through them. And in the end, I always pray you finally forget and move on. And pray you finally become happy. And so do I.
It’s been a while now, but you seem to keep some things that may remind you of me. Learning about that, it really made me pray harder that you finally let go and move on. I know no matter how hard and endless I ask in my head why you are keeping it that way, I would never know your answer. As much as I don’t want to assume, I could not help at times to think that maybe somehow, you are still waiting for my return. I always pray we could move forward that easily, because I guess we had enough time to do so.
If I may ask, what made you stick around back then? I just thought no one was supposed to stay with me being that way— often nonsense.
And I wondered, until now, whether all of it were true. Whether it was the real you I was talking to. Whether your words and gestures were real. Whether those were meant for me as a friend. Whether you were starting to catch something that none of us were supposed to feel. Not especially towards a stranger. Because I, on the other hand, had been real. I learned to slowly open my real self to a stranger. And that was when I started to back off, too. I started becoming… scared. Of me being completely open. To you. Of me slowly getting too attached, becoming too hard for me to handle what I feel all those while. And scared that I may end up hurt because of such assumptions that were beyond what was just there— two strangers trying to get to know each other, trying to be convenient to one another. We were never more than that. But still, after quite a while, I learned considering you as a friend. I did. And I was glad I did.
Now if you would ask me why I stick around back then, I would say, more than just talking to a stranger who has got enough knack on keeping up a conversation, you did not seriously judged my being me in the long run. You seemed to be fine with how I was, with what I do, with how nonsense I was, and with how stubborn I was with not telling things right away. You were patient. You have dreams. For yourself and for your family. You love them. One thing I envy about you. I wish I could also be that way to my own. But I got none anymore. I only have myself then and now. I was glad that you were warm to your family. Thanks for sharing things about them. Back then, I felt like you were just you, and I believed it.
Thank you for coming along. I pray for your happiness so that you can finally let me go completely. I will wait for that moment when I could already tell myself I am finally over the memories of the conversation we had together. I will wait.
Be happy. I’m sorry.
