I wish people can take everything with them when they leave.

Everything that is and might be intertwined with the entire concept of the one who left. The dried-up mud on the shoes worn during that unforgettable drizzly evening, the crumpled worksheets in memory of a tough Accounting problem, the laughters and the songs which are now unclear voices in one’s head, too unclear to even recognize if they were really once part of what used to be a wonderful reality or if they’re just plain and ridiculous delusions and hallucinations ever since, the past recolletions, the questions forever unanswered, the indefinite and inconsistent emotions. Even the potential pain the one that is left behind might feel. Everything. Just everything.

When someone leaves, another one is always left behind. Why is it so hard for people to just simply turn backs on each other and walk separate, opposite directions? When someone leaves, the other one, the one that is left behind, emptily and hopelessly stares at the silhouette of the one that left, and then sighs. And finally, decides to take the opposite track. That’s the time when the one that left becomes the one that is left behind. They switch places. Until later on, they both become the one that left. Either one of them believes that the earth is round, that somewhere, in their separate flights, their ends will meet. Either one of them. But never the two of them.

I wish people to be more considerate to bring everything with them when they leave. The past recolletions, the questions forever unanswered, the indefinite and inconsistent emotions and most especially the potential pain the one that is left behind might feel. But no. No. It’s sad that the world is fair but the people in it are not.

The confusion was suffocating me. And so I spilled everything— no, not exactly everything, maybe only the most important parts of it, the parts of it which I think you ought to know— last night. Right after that, I thought I could start breathing normally but I was wrong. I’m always wrong. Instead, the rope around my neck tightened. The confusion was no longer suffocating me. The confusion is now killing me.

I saw it coming.

I saw it coming.

Yes, I was on top of some cliff and the waves were crashing, ready to conquer me, us. But you closed my eyes with your wet, quivering hands so, you whispered, I could focus more on the feeling and not on the perspective. And now that my eyes are completely shut, yours are the ones wide open.

I am, on top of some cliff, and the waves are crashing, ready to conquer me, us. And yet I see the danger no more. Dominating inside me is this warmth I feel beside you despite the excessive coolness the wind and waters release. While you, you are, by that time, awake and back to face the truth.

And then I knew, I was only part of a fantasy. Of your fantasy.

You left me trapped in this fantasy of yours.

Now, tell me, what am I supposed to do next?

I feel extremely depressed that I wish the monster in my dream would swallow my heart whole rather than feeling the sharp edges of life’s very unfortunate circumstances slice it dreadfully and slowly into ashes.

I feel utterly alone that I’d rather live in an odd alien’s planet where I can truly be alone than see the people I love look at me as if I am just some stranger from across the street.

I feel so sad that I wouldn’t care if today’s judgment day and everybody would die together with the most abused four-letter word which I happen to hate the most because I am wondering why the hell it even existed if the world restricts me the chance to feel it even for once in my lifetime.

And finally, you are the only one who can make me feel this bad.

I dreamed of you last night.

I dreamed of you last night. And it was no ordinary dream. Like a vague flash of memory or a 3-second radio commercial. No, it wasn’t like that. Everything seemed to be crystal clear. Like, in the calmness of our slumber, our dreams, which I hope destiny made similar, woke us up as if telling us, “Come on, you two, get up. Do this for real.” Yes, as clear as that.

I pictured us very clearly lying on a bed of healthy grass, talking about the usual things. Your interests, mine, some people we both know, or some people we only knew because of our unending stories, and that first night our souls met. We never get tired of talking about that fateful night. The sky was all blue and like kids, we were making shapes out of the strange dances of the clouds. It was a bright and sunny day. I was so happy. You never fail to make me happy. We weren’t alone, though. My friends were out there on the mattress a few inches away from us, playing cards and kept on shouting, “One! One!”

All of a sudden, you uttered the words I’ve always been afraid to hear. “I love you already,” you whispered, with eyes looking straight at the sun.

And that was the moment all turned out to be so unclear like thick, gray, smoke. I cannot remember if I actually woke up or if I just stopped dreaming. I don’t know. Maybe because I just don’t want this to happen. Ever. I really don’t want to.