"And she was
Like a blade of iceLike a lonely roadClearest day aliveAlways sharp and coldAlways beautiful
I am such a fool"
Even If She Falls (2011) by Blink-182
It's been seven days since I was unceremoniously dumped by my now ex-girlfriend, and I still do not know where the crack started and what I could have done to stop the fractures from enveloping our relationship. To be honest, I don't really want to know. I abstained, almost to the point of callousness, from asking beyond her succinct answer of "we drifted apart". Knowing what I could have done differently will simply intensify the regretful sense of 'what-ifs' and 'if onlies' that now percolates the static of my daily preoccupations. Is it selfish to pretend that it really was her and not me? If it was me, why wasn't I told before it tipped across the point of no return?
One of the thing I didn't realise - but is now obvious to me - was how much she figured in my everyday life, even when we are always hundreds of miles apart. She's the reason why I have not felt even a fraction of a second of loneliness in the past four years. I call her when I'm driving. I call her when I walk anywhere, even when I walk from one building to another at the hospital where I work. I call her after I come out of a movie theatre or finish reading a book, just so I can talk to her about it. For the longest time, she was my sole confidant. Now, several times a day, I would absentmindedly try to dial her up, only to remember that we've "drifted apart", whatever that actually means.
So I deleted her number.
"Can we still be friends after this?" Phoebe asked.
"Yes," I said, not realising at the time that I was lying. I don't think I'm matured or level enough to maintain a friendship after breaking up with someone. I tried that once and got myself stuck inside a purgatory of self-pity for most of a whole year, and I only recovered after I purged my second ex completely out of my life by asking her to never talk to me, call me or even make eye contact if we run into each other on the street. It's drastic and cruel, and it worked. Maybe, just maybe, I don't want to risk the chance of knowing that Phoebe can be happy without me, true as that may be. I don't want to hear how she fell in love with someone else a couple of months from now. I don't want to know how great a guy he is, or how I'd totally like him once I get to know him.
I realised after the fact that this separation must have been planned long before Last Monday, and that Phoebe probably decided that it should not ruin our last week together, one which we had planned since August. She knew just how much I looked forward to her visit. It hurts terribly to know that through all those final days, behind the charade of normalcy; beneath each of our conversations and comfortable silences; at our many dinner tables and in bed, she knew we were heading towards the last page of our story. I resent how she had led me to believe that everything was alright when they were not. And most of all, I resent the fact that she didn't think I deserve to be told this in person, one lover to another - not even in our last moments together.
I need to be the architect of my own recovery. I need to be methodical, cold, and calculating. I had already taken myself apart once in my life and rebuilt myself from the ensuing wreckage of shame, heartbreak and self-harm. I fear I will not survive another reinvention.
Please forgive me. I'm sorry.
Please forgive me. I'm sorry.
Surviving it one week at a time,
k0k s3n w4i