That night when he told me he stopped loving me, I collapsed there on the floor, my eyes were too tired from crying that I didn’t even notice which part of the room he was standing on. All I heard was his voice getting sharper and sharper and my vulnerability became its focal point. I knew that it was it. I knew, there was nothing I could do about it.
“Since when?” I asked. My voice slowly cracking like making sure everything I said will be remembered.
“It’s been 6 months since the fading out happened.” He said. His sentence came out without a stutter, like a memorized poem he practiced when he’s alone.
We spent a couple of minutes in silence. I was just there, putting barriers from everything that came cascading in my mind, tried to filter which part of his actions were real and which one he pulled up a mask on. I was trying to designate my hopes out from my wishes, my reality from his fiction. But I knew that he knew how hurt I was. It was palpable.
“I am sorry. I did but I can’t force myself to stay when I am no longer as happy as you were. I am sorry.”
It became the last thing I heard from him. I never even had a glace of him. I never even got a chance to watch him leave. I didn’t even know if he was crying too. He never needed to say a goodbye. It was suddenly understood. I knew it was the kind of goodbye that doesn’t get a healing or second chance. I knew I lost him.
I was left there with such million soldiers of contradicting memories parading inside my head. Six months. He faked his affection so well that I didn’t even notice. How could I? How could he lie to someone he used to drop a text or call to make sure I made it home safe? How could he be this distant to me when every time we were apart, he always wish I was beside him? How could he be this cruel when every goddamned fight that we had, he always skipped his work just so we could talk, how he travelled miles just so he could see me? How could he be this cold when he was so warm every time he kissed me, every time he magnetized my body against his chest, every time I felt his tongue on my neck, every time I felt his skin and his frictions? How could he tell me he stopped loving me, when we were happy yesterday? How could he say he stopped loving me while promising me he wanted to be with me forever?
The next morning I woke up, I knew I was no longer the same person I was. I lost the person who built me up every time I’m exhausted about life and friends. I lost not just the half of me instead, I lost the person I see a reflection of why I needed to be strong.
I was tired. My mind never stopped untangling the last night’s memories. I still think of him that morning, where he went the moment he walked out the door. Did he slept well after leaving me broken? Has he eaten his breakfast? I knew I still love him. It never subtracted even just an inch of how significant he was to me but I must admit my heart was mad. After that night of registering how he falsified the love he had for me, all I was left of were anger and thirst for elaborated explanation why in the two of us, it was him who needed to leave first. All I did was love him. All I did was give him everything I have. All I showed were my kindness. I repaid his efforts with more than what he deserved. He was so unfair. He was so selfish.
Days crawled into weeks, I left some of my questions on desk, left some of my tears on the shower, left some of nightmares beneath my pillowcase, left the feeling of missing him on the cup of cold coffee I poured on sink.
I hated him.
I knew I needed to feel something other than feeling sorry for myself. So I hated him. I hated everything that reminded me of him and us. I renovated my room until everything felt new, until I could erase his face in my walls. I hated how he hurt me, how I hurt myself the day he left me. I hate the way he had to pluck his choice of saving himself so he broke me.
I overdosed myself from sadness. Sadness that somehow had a shade of his promises, sadness that had the browses of his Polaroid smiles, sadness that sounds exactly like his favorite song. I was sad for months until that sadness stretched into years. But my sadness are only visible in the mirror when I am alone. It was easier telling people I was over him and that I don’t care rather than telling them I still had dreams of us, I could still hear his last sentence, I could still recall the sound of the doorknob clacking, I could still feel the trauma of stillness.
On that second Tuesday of July, I bumped across the box of our pictures I hid on the basement. It was our collection of years that I never burned but I promised not to open again.
There was a picture of me sitting on the sand as the waves came in blur from the background. There was an image of his hand holding mine, we wore that same ring we bought from a souvenir shop last summer. Until I had that picture I grabbed that I never overlooked before. It was us, our face were too close together and we occupied the entire portrait with our pale cheeks. I was smiling so tangibly and he did too or should I say, he tried too. I looked up close and realized it was a picture we took three months before the break up. I stared at him for so long and realized he was smiling but he didn’t look happy. His eyes were too sad and confused. That was the moment it hit me.
He did everything that he could to change what was changing. He postponed the farewells in hope that maybe one day, his love for me will grow back. He stayed because he didn’t want to go. He stayed because maybe he was just confused. Maybe he still wanted to love me but somehow, he lost all reasons why he must. Maybe he did want to save me too but in able to do so, he must save himself first. Maybe he needed to go because if he remained a little longer, he’ll hurt me worse. Maybe I read the wrong clues. I now understood the things I neglected. And that he was hurting without letting me know it. He was hurting because he was forcing himself to do everything that makes him unhappy. He was pressured. He stayed for a while because he doesn’t want to hurt me but he was left with no choice. I suddenly saw things clearer.
I ran downstairs and entered my room. I sat on the side of the floor where he left me crying. I cried so hard. I cried so much. It was like cleansing all the remaining heartaches I refused to let go. I cried until I cried adequately. He left me because he wanted to save me from him. Perhaps, I only see the way he hurt me and not the way he hurt himself while saving me for six months. Perhaps, he didn’t do something coward for running away. He did something brave for himself.
I still love him. I still do.
I don’t know when I’ll stop.
Maybe I will love him until I loved him enough.
Maybe I don’t need to force myself to feel the things that’s not there yet.
Maybe that day will come as well —‘the fading out’.
Perhaps it will happen to me as well.
Maybe the day will come where I still wanted to love him but I’ll run out of reasons why I must.
- Mica Meñez, the fading out