The last of the embers

“You are everything they never were.” – Me

I remember when she first told me about you. Through her haze of alcohol she texted me to say that she missed me and couldn’t wait for me to come home because she had found someone for me. I remember I was rushing out the door of my little Copley Court apartment and didn’t have time to entertain her except to say I was not one for random setups, but that I hoped he could speak English like a decent person. If only I had refused. Thank God I didn’t refuse.

Two days later, I was reminded that she had said she’d given you my email address. And so I went against my usual principle of deleting and blocking strangers who added me on MSN, and let my own curiosity get the better of me. My sceptical side thought I would tire of this within a fortnight, but then… Maybe, I thought, this one could be different. How right I was. And, in some ways, how very, very wrong.

I will never know for sure what it was that had me so drawn to you over the next few months. Maybe it was the fact that we shared so many interests, and I could talk to you and relate to you on my own level. Maybe it was the fact that I had not yet met you and I felt safe enough to reach out from behind the wall that was the oceans separating us. Or maybe it was the fact that, throughout that difficult phase of my life where I was going through several transitions at a time, you had somehow become a constant in my life that I could always turn to. My penis fish, I called you — how silly it all seems now — because that was what you had become: a presence that had found its way into my system and affected me when you were and weren’t there.

I remember all the firsts. The first time I spoke to you over the phone and you said I didn’t sound the way you thought I would but that you liked my voice. The first time you said you liked my laugh, although you never knew that it was because of you that I laughed so much. The first time you fell asleep talking to me, which left me mortified and later amused because she told me how you had woken her unceremoniously to ask for my number so that you could apologize. The first time you said you missed me, and then followed up several seconds later with “I miss talking to you” because I was frozen in my seat and couldn’t reply, and, several hours later, the first time I gathered enough courage to tell you I missed you too. The first time I saw the shoes — do you remember the shoes? — and laughed, because even though they weren’t me, they were exactly what you would have bought for me, and I wouldn’t have had it any other way. The first time I told you I fell in love with you just being you, and how your surprise at that statement showed your vulnerability.

I think I felt it the most when I was in Boston. You were getting ready to move as well, do you remember? I remember all the text messages I received from you, speaking of your uncertainty and apprehension about leaving behind a life you had so loved and starting a new one in a new place. Those were the days when I wished I were there to help you, to hug you and keep hugging you, to tell you that everything would be fine, that it was all right to be afraid, and that I was there for you, no matter how far away I was. And yet I always knew that you would find a way to see the brighter side of it all, to embrace it for the opportunity that it was, and to make yourself rise above all the hardships and come away from it a wiser, if not happier, and stronger person.

Throughout all this you talked about us often. I always wondered what made you talk about us, what gave you the courage to talk about something that at that time seemed so surreal and yet so uncertain. It terrified me because we were still so far apart, and yet it softened my cynical side because I thought that if you could find it in yourself to talk — or even think — about this, I could learn to break down that wall and allow myself to think about it for once.

And then I was home. Those were the most difficult days, when I wished the most that you were here, especially at night when the memories of the place I once called Home washed over me and I cried myself to sleep, incidentally making it the only way of fighting the jetlag. And that was when the need to tell you was greater than ever: that I was in love with you, that in some crazy, impossible way, I had fallen in love with you. But again, I was held back by my fears — the fear of having everything take a turn for the worse when I told you, the fear of driving you away (even though in the end it did), the fear of you disbelieving me, because who in their right mind could have fallen in love with someone they had never met? And so I kept it to myself, thinking that when the right time came I would tell you. How I wish I’d never told you. But thank God I told you.

“There’s a time and place for everything. Time to confess. I was outside your place just now. Nice basketball court. Don’t scream, it was meant to be a surprise.” I remember I was so stunned I couldn’t do anything either except to say, “Oh…” You were home. All at once I was happy, apprehensive, excited, terrified. I will never forget the first time I saw you; you had your water bottle up to your face and when I got into the car you stopped drinking and just looked at me, and I wanted to laugh because I could not have imagined you doing any differently. And when you later said, “So… here we are. Nothing has changed, right?” I wanted to hug you and tell you that no, nothing had changed, nothing would change.

You knew, didn’t you? You knew I was in love with you, which was why you tried so hard to make me tell you. But as terrified as I was of the consequences, I knew had to tell you because I would regret it if I chose to go the rest of my life wondering how it all could have been. And when I finally told you, I was convinced that I had made everything worse, and in a way, maybe I had. Maybe if I had waited until things had been on surer ground to tell you, we wouldn’t be the way we are now. Maybe if I had opened up and told you more than just that I was in love with you, things would have turned out differently. Or maybe… maybe if I had never told you at all…

And then, just like that, the music died, and the laughter stopped.

Sometimes I wish I had told you everything then. How it always made me laugh when you laughed at my silliness. How I wanted to open up to you, but found it difficult because you shut me out sometimes, even though you didn’t know it. How happy I was whenever you called, because after a while it seemed that MSN and Gtalk just weren’t enough. How I had to look away whenever you looked at me, because the look in your eyes was so intense it shook me to the core. But I couldn’t tell you, because I had seen how just telling you I was in love with you had made you afraid of what could happen next, no matter how much you wanted to know all of it.

To this day I’ve never fully understood where it all went wrong, where I went wrong, what I could have done to make things better, why everything had suddenly fallen apart just like that. I tried so hard to build it all back up, but I knew the damage had been done, because you had already shut me out. You had lost what little confidence in me, if any, that you had before, and I had lost my footing on what I had thought had been relatively steady ground. And I knew that no matter how hard I tried, no matter how many times you left and came back, things would never be the way they were when I was still in the U.S. The irony of it.

Do you remember SINGfest? I think that was the last time we were even remotely happy, maybe because at that time I thought that things could get better. I wanted to tell you how much I missed you when you weren’t around, and that I missed you even more when you were around, because we weren’t the way we used to be. But when you started to shut me out again a week later, I knew that was the last time you had let me in. And after you moved back here, it was painfully clear that somewhere along the way after SINGfest, something had happened to make you decide once and for all that you didn’t want to try anymore. Maybe you had never wanted to try in the first place.

And now here we are. Almost a year later, and we are even greater strangers than we were when we first knew each other, and the damage is irreparable. I’m sorry for everything. I’m sorry I never told you everything when I had the chance, I’m sorry I made things so difficult for you when you tried to reach me, and I’m sorry that when I wanted to open up to you it was too late. I’m sorry you couldn’t forgive me for not being what you wanted me to be, and I’m sorry I was so accepting of you exactly the way you were that I let you be and never fought hard enough for you. I’m sorry you couldn’t believe in me — or was it in yourself? — the way I believed in you, and I’m sorry that you couldn’t let go enough to give us a chance, in spite of everything you had said over the past months.

But I have to thank you. You taught me to hope again, to believe that there would always be a light at the end of the tunnel as long as we didn’t turn away from it. You taught me to have faith, both in myself and in life around me. You took away some of my cynicism and bitterness, even though you couldn’t let go of your own. You taught me to go for what I want when I want it, even if it meant setting myself up for failure, because looking at you now, I know that if it had to come down to this, I would rather be sad about losing you so that I can move on, than to keep stumbling about blindly in this gray area, wondering what the outcome of all this would be.

We’ve come a long way, haven’t we? We’ve both done our fair share of growing up, of learning, of searching. I hope you find what you’ve been looking for, now that I know it isn’t me. I don’t know what I will find now, because I thought you were everything I had been looking for, but that’s the risk I’m willing to take.

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