LavĂnia
plalace
- Feb 19, 2024
- 161
The last time I saw my ex was three months ago. We had already broken up, stopped talking, started talking again, and stopped again. I broke the silence one day and asked him out. I took the same route to his house as always. Walking to catch the bus, careful not to sweat too much and ruin my makeup, avoiding the sun or walking slower because I'm sedentary. After the bus, always getting off at the same stop, near his house.
Near that place, one day, we had arranged for me to go to his house, but his aunt didn't let me at the last minute and I had to leave. I remember being very frustrated, walking down the street biting the pens in my pencil case, bursting them, trying to calm myself, tasting the ink.
When I arrived at his house, I noticed the pattern. How many times had I been there? How many times had I rung the doorbell? How many times had I looked at my reflection in my phone, worried about my face, while fixing my hair? How many times had I taken a deep breath before calling him? When I saw him, I was surprised; he was so different. He clearly knew other people, his hair had changed, he was more confident, even more so than usual. We went out and went to an ice cream shop. We took a bus and talked a little. I don't remember what we talked about, but I think I regret being too simplistic.
The last time we went to the same ice cream shop, on the way to the bus I forgot the stop where we were going to get off, so there was confusion and we didn't know what to do. We got off early and had to walk further. It had rained on the way back, we got soaked, and he lost his flip-flop after stepping on the flooded curb. I asked if I could hold his hand, and given the situation, he let me. I made my joy clear, but I regretted being too obvious; he didn't like physical contact. Holding hands, we ran to his house. When we got home, he lent me his sister's clothes, and we continued talking in a pleasant atmosphere—a memorable day. It was the day we agreed to get married, at a picnic, but still dressed appropriately. I would wear a tacky wedding dress and he a burgundy suit.
When we were arriving, I forgot which stop we needed to get off at, again. I found it more ridiculous than funny. We got off one stop early, but we took too long; the driver thought we'd made it, so the door closed while I was still getting off. It hurt a little, but he noticed quickly and opened it. I felt sedated; was this really happening? We laughed and walked to the ice cream shop. My foot was bleeding; I think I cut it when the door closed. He was worried, but I changed the subject, bringing up other topics that I regret.
Once, when I was waiting for a bus near his house to go home, we talked about being afraid of people. I confessed for the first time that I had a deep fear of people. I would get on the bus thinking about what I should say, where I should look, doing everything I could to avoid being killed. A continuous struggle for survival and fear of simple things. He laughed and asked how we were still alive. I laughed too. But that thought wouldn't leave my head afterward.
Looking at my foot, I felt that this was a good thing, I had changed, what was one more injury? I seemed to be made of plastic, versatile and resilient, but sensitive and malleable at the same time. As we walked, I watched the blood drying on my flip-flop.
One day, waiting for the bus near his house, I ended up stepping on a nail. It pierced my flip-flop. We had talked that day about ways to die, so I associated it with saying that my way would be by tetanus, and that it was very anticlimactic. I washed my foot at his house, but I still felt a slight pain when I stepped. I didn't get tetanus.
We ate ice cream, talked some more. Our ideas were much more different than before. I no longer had the effort to try to connect with his different perspective, besides, I wasn't doing anything anymore, just working, I didn't have anything more interesting to talk about. As we left, it started to rain again. Like before. I felt a strange disgust, but much less than I would have felt before. Things were repeating themselves, in a more distorted, worsened way. The rain intensified, we left in an Uber. Arriving at his house, he lent me some clothes. And I don't remember what happened next. I guess it doesn't matter. After that, I didn't pay any more attention. I had a feeling it wouldn't be good to see him again, but in reality it was much simpler. It wasn't good or bad. It was just another day. An empty conversation. Repeated events. Disconnection. No love. This used to be my biggest fear, things continuing in a repetitive pattern that we have no control over, and that only gets worse. But I didn't feel fear that day. I felt like I had nothing.
Near that place, one day, we had arranged for me to go to his house, but his aunt didn't let me at the last minute and I had to leave. I remember being very frustrated, walking down the street biting the pens in my pencil case, bursting them, trying to calm myself, tasting the ink.
When I arrived at his house, I noticed the pattern. How many times had I been there? How many times had I rung the doorbell? How many times had I looked at my reflection in my phone, worried about my face, while fixing my hair? How many times had I taken a deep breath before calling him? When I saw him, I was surprised; he was so different. He clearly knew other people, his hair had changed, he was more confident, even more so than usual. We went out and went to an ice cream shop. We took a bus and talked a little. I don't remember what we talked about, but I think I regret being too simplistic.
The last time we went to the same ice cream shop, on the way to the bus I forgot the stop where we were going to get off, so there was confusion and we didn't know what to do. We got off early and had to walk further. It had rained on the way back, we got soaked, and he lost his flip-flop after stepping on the flooded curb. I asked if I could hold his hand, and given the situation, he let me. I made my joy clear, but I regretted being too obvious; he didn't like physical contact. Holding hands, we ran to his house. When we got home, he lent me his sister's clothes, and we continued talking in a pleasant atmosphere—a memorable day. It was the day we agreed to get married, at a picnic, but still dressed appropriately. I would wear a tacky wedding dress and he a burgundy suit.
When we were arriving, I forgot which stop we needed to get off at, again. I found it more ridiculous than funny. We got off one stop early, but we took too long; the driver thought we'd made it, so the door closed while I was still getting off. It hurt a little, but he noticed quickly and opened it. I felt sedated; was this really happening? We laughed and walked to the ice cream shop. My foot was bleeding; I think I cut it when the door closed. He was worried, but I changed the subject, bringing up other topics that I regret.
Once, when I was waiting for a bus near his house to go home, we talked about being afraid of people. I confessed for the first time that I had a deep fear of people. I would get on the bus thinking about what I should say, where I should look, doing everything I could to avoid being killed. A continuous struggle for survival and fear of simple things. He laughed and asked how we were still alive. I laughed too. But that thought wouldn't leave my head afterward.
Looking at my foot, I felt that this was a good thing, I had changed, what was one more injury? I seemed to be made of plastic, versatile and resilient, but sensitive and malleable at the same time. As we walked, I watched the blood drying on my flip-flop.
One day, waiting for the bus near his house, I ended up stepping on a nail. It pierced my flip-flop. We had talked that day about ways to die, so I associated it with saying that my way would be by tetanus, and that it was very anticlimactic. I washed my foot at his house, but I still felt a slight pain when I stepped. I didn't get tetanus.
We ate ice cream, talked some more. Our ideas were much more different than before. I no longer had the effort to try to connect with his different perspective, besides, I wasn't doing anything anymore, just working, I didn't have anything more interesting to talk about. As we left, it started to rain again. Like before. I felt a strange disgust, but much less than I would have felt before. Things were repeating themselves, in a more distorted, worsened way. The rain intensified, we left in an Uber. Arriving at his house, he lent me some clothes. And I don't remember what happened next. I guess it doesn't matter. After that, I didn't pay any more attention. I had a feeling it wouldn't be good to see him again, but in reality it was much simpler. It wasn't good or bad. It was just another day. An empty conversation. Repeated events. Disconnection. No love. This used to be my biggest fear, things continuing in a repetitive pattern that we have no control over, and that only gets worse. But I didn't feel fear that day. I felt like I had nothing.
