We were in his room. He was lying on the bed and I was sitting on the floor with my back rested against the side. The tension was thick as was the somber melancholy intensified, no doubt, by the darkness of the room.
After what seemed like an eternity I finally spoke up. “Are you excited about tomorrow?” I asked with a near sigh. Upon hearing my voice he sat up. He swung his legs over the bed, narrowly missing my head and dangled them from the side. “Yea,” he replied.
We sat in silence for another minute or so. “And you love her don’t you?” I spoke up again, finally having enough of the deafening lack of sound.
“I do,” he replied. His statement was neither rushed nor paused. There was only the simple truth, which laced his words and it broke my heart to hear him say it. “Hey. Look-,” he started, but before he could finish his thought I sprang up from my sit on the floor and pounced on the bed beside him.
“What is this ‘hey look’?” I rhetorically asked, “You’re supposed to be happy.”
I tried to reassure him, but my heart wasn’t in it. I sighed audibly. “You deserve this. She’s beautiful. She’ll make you happy and I know you’ll make her happy. You’ll have kids and grow old together. It’s everything you could ever want right. So be happier?” Even though I could feel my heartbreaking, I meant every word I said. How was it that I could knowingly push him, someone who was once mine into the arms of other and feel reassured as long as I knew he was happy?
‘You really have it bad’ I told myself. I was preparing to leave when he held the hand that rested on the bed firmly in place. I looked up at him trying to decipher his motives. His gaze was penetrating and pleading at the same time.
“I’m sorry.” It was said so softly that if I wasn’t listening closely enough I would have missed it. I didn’t think it was possible for a heart to break so many times in one night, but yet again I could feel the cracks as if they were laying siege to the heart that beat inside my chest.
“I’m not,” I replied. I was about to leave again but before I knew it that hand that had stopped my first attempt was now resting on my cheek, wiping away tears I didn’t even know I was shedding. Before I knew it the wide gap that had separated us was no longer there and our faces were merely inches apart.
‘Please don’t,’ I thought to myself, ‘I don’t have the strength to refuse you.’ It was a mental plea to him, which went ignored as he began to close the gap. I couldn’t move. I would be lying to myself if I were to say that I didn’t desire his touch, but I knew if it were to continue I’d be the only one to get hurt. “Don’t…” is the only thing I managed to whisper. He paused when our lips were only an inch apart, then disregarding what I had said, captured my lips in his. His kiss was passionate and needy, yet it carried with it apologies and a burning sense of finality. I kissed back with the same sense of passion and need only my kiss carried a selfish sense of hope that this wouldn’t end. I began to remember back to how it all started, back to the many kisses before this last one. A chaste kiss on the cheek from a friend. A brush of the lips, because he’d ‘just felt like it’. To the real first kiss that admitted ‘yes, I do like you’. To the desire filled kiss that screamed ‘I love you’. When did it all stop?
The beginning of the end occurred when she came into the picture. And it isn’t like I could blame her. He didn’t cheat. He’d never cheat. But he did change. The kisses became less frequent, but his soul became more alive. His words might have said ‘I love you’ but his smile, his actions said ‘I’m in love with her.’ And I couldn’t deny it either. They were perfect for each other. Stupid, cruel fate, that had to go and make my guy someone else’s soul mate. Again without noticing I began to cry, which effectively ended the kiss. A kiss that meant what? Did what? Even if it did mean anything, it didn’t matter. It didn’t change anything. In less than twenty-four hours, he’d be married and I’d be alone. If her presence had signified the beginning of the end then the kiss had meant the end of it all.
When he saw that my tears were nowhere near stopping, he pulled me closer and rested my head against his neck. He pulled me up so that we could both rest comfortably on the bed and laid his head down on a pillow. The kiss had meant the end for he, all of the passions and sorrows he had felt for me had been expressed and cleared away in one clean action, but for me it’d brought about a scary revelation: I was still very much in love with him and getting over him would be a long and treacherous road.
No comments:
Post a Comment