Going Back to Grey

He came here ahead of me. It wasn’t him then, it was a girl: a girl so pretty and prim. For a week she didn’t last. Her blamelessness was lost. In her place came a man. Silent. Reserved. Suave. I took no notice since I was very much preoccupied by some other, whom I thought was far better. Indeed, I thought. How thoughts could go wrong! They were never certain anyway.

He was doing errands for everybody, slaving for them but me. He was aloof, or so I assumed. It took one little moment for me to need his presence. It didn’t hurt then. His glance caught mine, without the clichéd spark that every girl was dreaming to witness. That idea never came in for so many times until his voice is gradually penetrating into my comfort zone. What comfort zone?!

My daily routine was grey, and I needed some colors. I was used to the dead air I was living with for a month or so. That was my comfort zone. When I had no idea what was going on with the world out there. His voice was poignant and sharp and it could pierce. My comfort zone wasn’t spared. His eyes smiled and it smiled at me. My lips shuddered at the eagerness to respond back. I eventually trusted my ambiguous notions. After all, it was somehow good to have somebody to talk to. I was more bored than the dead and it was never prevalent to have me bored rigid of anything else in the world.

I found a friend in him and he instantly became the pages that I could smoothly write my whimpers onto, as I had things to tell but didn’t have the courage to. He was my diary, my breathing and bleeding diary. I could write and write and write some more and he would still crave further, which I undeniably fell in love with. I loved his enthusiasm to learn everything about me, like he cared. He said he cared. One word I despised. One word abused by every man who was caught in the shackles and is no longer free. How can one care? Apparently a lie I thought I should’ve forgiven, and yet, have not forgotten. As coward as my not telling those things meant to be unveiled.

I wanted badly to touch him, kiss him, and tell him how he had been the lingering dream I tried hard to eradicate every night. If he only knew how it kills me to see him, and her, whole together, while I’m slowly breaking apart. Sinful as you may call it, he once said he was mine. And I would have been his if I wanted to. That was stupid, of course I wanted to. We wanted to. But we could not. We should not. Somebody owns him and I was damned, years late.

Somehow I was able to live behind the deceptions of it all. While I was caught in my reveries of the him-and-I, creating funny noises on my mind exchanging words meant to exist within the spheres of my illusions. I chose to believe my own fantasies and learned to indeed believe them in due time. I was beginning to find bliss in it, and when I was ultimately blown away, he said goodbye.

He was going back to her. I heard him say farewell. But it didn’t sink in. he was walking away now. I was watching his every step, getting farther and farther away from where we used to be. But I’m still here, here where we used to be. I’m staring at his chair, the chair where he used to be. I know he’s never going to be back here, where we used to be. I think I’m seeing all the colors draining from the mainstream. And now, just about now, I’m beginning to go back again to grey.

—found this draft here, I can’t remember anymore who I was pertaining to but I thought I shouldn’t let my pieces die in the backyard so I posted it. No offense meant. :p