what we talk about when we don’t talk anymore
I see you across the room, attention elsewhere while sitting still — neither waiting nor expecting — you are just there, bored, or so it seemed. It was never easy to get through your mind, or perhaps I just refused to see it as it was already apparent on your face from the beginning. As I lean on the doorframe, fifteen steps away from you, separated by these strangers who all looked too kind for their own good, I take my time recognizing you. I look at your messy hair. Did you grow it out, or is it a freshly-new cut? I couldn’t remember the last time you asked me about what to do with your hair, but I remember the sound of your laugh when I told you to let it grow for a little longer since I said I wanted to see how you looked in college. I kept in mind that I should mention your college days every other time because I saw how it brought you a soothing joy to talk about it. You were nostalgic and content and had a cheeky grin when you reminisced about it. I liked teasing you for that, play-challenging you on your accomplishments when you were younger because you were proud, pretending it was all your make-beliefs to swoon someone, and all the songs and melodies I tried to compose just from the sound of your laugh came rushing back to me.
Then the movement of your hair due to the ceiling fan brings me to look at your face; not noticing my presence yet, you look to your left to the window, and I remember the other night we were eating out, I quietly took a picture of your side profile yet you failed to act cool for it, you flashed a sheepish smile, and I claimed you ruined the candid pictures. But you didn’t. I loved how the photos turned out, so I sent you all the photos, even the blurry ones I took, while I laughed at your silly jokes as you tried to supermodel your supposedly high fashion magazine pictures. You saved all the photos and asked me whether or not you looked good that night. You weren’t aware of the fact that I couldn’t bring myself to tell you the truth, not when I knew you were joking, because I would write you a ten-page essay on how your physical appearance matters less and less since I have seen the good in you, your kindness which spread rapidly like a fire to everyone you met, your multi-faceted humor which suited each and every group of age that got you welcomed by all, your intelligence which was never meant to bring anyone down by that calm voice of yours lecturing, how I knew you better than that outer shell of physique you were worried of for some time.
You’re now glancing at your watch, and I follow your gaze to the black watch on your right wrist; it was always black, wasn’t it? You rarely took it off because it fits your wrist just right and didn’t dangle around like mine. And I remember I appreciated you trying to make mine fit my wrist better, but along the way, you were distracted by my wrist; you noticed how small my wrist was and laughed. There, my heart skipped a beat. Maybe I liked being the reason behind your joy. Perhaps I enjoyed the moment when you laughed and I smiled, but when our eyes met tonight, my heart dropped and God knows how I wish I hadn’t come.
ACT II. [redacted]
