His eyes carved volumes into my brain and his fingertips played my bones like instruments. When I was near him I felt nauseatingly electric and I swear if somebody touched me as I walked home from his house they would’ve been shocked to see the beautiful scars he left on me with the volts that came from his dark brown irises when they flashed with emotion as he smiled coyly and bit his lip - knowing it drove me crazy. He would lace himself around me before I had to leave and echo in my bones until I could see him again. It always took me a while to recover after leaving him because being with him was like chasing storms.

I hate holding back. Trouble is something I do not want, but I can’t stop these words from spilling from out between my teeth, slipping through my outstretched fingers.

I love your eyes. I love your smile. And I love the way your arms feel around my shoulders.

These things, yes, I keep barred. Others, I shouldn’t. But I must. One word, then another tumbles out, then so many more, until I am completely naked, stripped of everything.

Embarrassed, pained, cold.

Is there no happy medium, I often ask. 

You are hers. I know this. Can’t I love you, too? 

The beep at the other line reminded me what remains of us. The deafening silence echoes through my handset, and a heavy sigh of disbelief diffuses in the room.

I have dialed the number pinned on the tiny cork board above the coffee table, at least ten times. The half smiles we managed to show in that picture beside the Post-it with your digits proves to be effective. The note in the polaroid, 17th December 2010 backstage, is slightly smudged, yet it still bears witness that I did not make that moment up. Suffice to say, that was the last time we hanged out. 

When did we start overlooking each other’s existence? How did we end up being two strangers completely unaware of the other’s presence? If we could sit in a tea shop and discuss all these things with you, explain ourselves, we’ll be back to normal in no time. 

Ignored messages and unreturned calls were proof of the second chances I have been desperately chasing in every opportunity. I have to stop this. The constant nostalgia I associate with our past friendship 

One last dial. Slowly, I pressed on the buttons, double checking after every dial, to make sure I’m calling the right number. 

The line was no longer busy. I mustered all the courage I have and uttered possibly the first words I’ve said to you in months. 

“Hello?”

“Ate Mich? Namiss kita.”

And right then, we’re back at square one.

I woke up, half-ass drunk, barely remembering what happened last night. You were sleeping beside me, and for some reason you’re holding my hand. I let go to get my clothes that were scattered all over your apartment. I sat on the space beside you, and I watched you sleep. You were snoring. It wasn’t that loud, but you rarely snore, so it was a clear indication of how tired you were when you fell asleep. 

I kissed you on the forehead, since it was a surefire way to wake you up. But you didn’t. Instead, you turned over and continued sleeping. I stood up from were I was sitting, and transferred to the couch. Two wine glasses, one half-empty and one toppled over, and a bottle of scotch, sat on the coffee table. My cellphone was beside the scotch, and I reread the recent messages on my inbox, as to have the slightest idea of what really happened.

I scrolled down, read the message and deleted everything on that goddamned phone. I threw my phone hard enough so it would make a sound that would wake you up, but that thump didn’t even make you budge. I then felt a stinging pain on my inner arm, and on my forehead as well. I had bruises all over my body. With every bruise making its presence felt, is me remembering every argument we had that night.

I was jealous. You were flirting with her. I caught you in the act. Yet, you keep lying. You kept saying it meant nothing and she meant nothing. But I knew something’s different, especially the way you looked at her, the way you talked to her. I never felt that. And I confronted you for it. You kept denying. In the course of the fight, there was just a point where I just gave up and cried. It wasn’t a defense mechanism. It was all the things I failed to verbalize, or things that I did tell you but you failed to understand.

That was all I can remember, my head still feels woozy from all the alcohol. Even woozy from all the oxytocin that you drowsed me with.

The make-up sex didn’t make up for anything that you did. As I wiped the makeup around my eyes, smeared by the tears I cried that night, and the lipstick on my lips, chafed by the very lies that you kissed me with, I drank the scotch left on that half-emptied glass.

You woke up.

That was my cue to leave.