And so the fourth day passed.
No news, no words, absolutely nothing from him.
There I was bundled in a corner shivering, shaking, hiccupping off my high.
And he was -.-
It was a stark realisation.
I didn’t want to be with someone who wouldn’t fight for me. Of course I always knew that, but the little efforts made my skinny heart flutter, suppressing the underlying trouble of it all. Maybe that was my stereotypical crazy-needy-naive persona, wanting someone to fight, break doors and punch the sky for me.
But he was kind of indifferent. All through those alarming hours of my emotional havoc.
He didn’t think, or he didn’t know or he didn’t care. Whatever his reason was, among a million and one reasons, it was a notion bold and underlined – this boy was not for me.
It was okay that I loved him as much as I loved him. That I adore him. That I told anyone who would listen how much in fact I liked him, listed what I like about him. The potential I see in him.
It was okay that I stayed as long as I had stayed. That I dwelled on all the above, in circles and triangles and 9 ams and 3 ams.
It wasn’t okay that he couldn’t articulate sentences, that one side of his brain told him not to think about it, that he couldn’t tell me three words:
Please don’t go. Or f*&! Any three words.
It wasn’t okay that he couldn’t address my fears and neglected heart.
I, wasn’t okay. And I wasn’t well.
But truly, with every part of my soul, beyond all hopes of lessons and karma, I wished to be able to eventually forgive the unforgivable.