I write this while I can hear you downstairs, talking and laughing with our other friend. It’s been two hours since I arrived here, and I’m killing time until the Ortigas Extension traffic eases and I can haul my remaining stuff here back to my parent’s place.
I wasn’t really planning to tell you I’ll be going today; I only told our friend that I’d be dropping by. I don’t know if he told you or if it was a coincidence but I received this from you last Tuesday:
Hey, was just wondering when you’d be free.
I was hoping I could talk to you.
In person. That is if you’re no longer mad at me. Thanks.
I told you I’m no longer mad at you. And that it’ll be nice to talk to you again.
I was looking forward to talk to you again.
Except that when I finally saw you, after several weeks of not seeing each other, it felt awkward. And I admit that I could still feel some resentment. I thought that writing the things I never got to tell you in a blog post was enough for me to let go of the anger. For a few days, at least, it seemed to have worked.
Except, well, maybe it didn’t.
There was a point earlier while I was here in this same spot, transferring the files I have in this desktop, when you came in and, for a few moments, we were left alone. And I was expecting that you will ask me if it was okay to talk. That we will finally have the talk.
But you didn’t, so we never did.
I was increasingly apprehensive since that day I read your message. I often found it difficult to concentrate on what I do. I found myself running imaginary conversations in my head, how our talk might turn out. Will we be raising voices? Will we end up laughing? Will we finally get some closure?
But it looks like that talk will not happen.
It’s 8:45 in the morning as I type this. And I will schedule this to be published by noon. That should give me enough time to cancel the publication if ever we get to have our talk. Or maybe I will just keep this post private, a snapshot of conflicted feelings that I will forget and maybe stumble upon years from now.
I will be quite disappointed if this post gets published. But I won’t be very surprised. It’s sad, though, how we seemed to have had a few happy years together, only to end up with us disappointing each other towards the end.
This will be the last thing I will write of you. Or maybe the last thing that I will admit to be about you.
You looked quite happy. I wish you luck. Goodbye.