Left right behind

I hated seeing him squeeze his face at every sip of the glass. I had watched him long enough, but I never got used to it and neither did he. We both felt the bitterness in our seperate ways. He, in his mouth. Me, all over. I didn't think he'd cope this long with the bitter slob. If we were still together, I'd have made him mix his broccoli smoothie with a little cream, or honey, or anything sweet.  I craved to relive the good old days. I missed his smell, his feel. I have only managed to feed my eyes by stalking him through the walls and the holes in the window sill. I wish I had forgotten his existence as quick as he forgot mine, but no. 

Being nothing more than a hopeless romantic, I memorized his routine meticulously. At first, I was perplexed by his decision to take up the job of a radio presenter. When we were together, he hardly spoke or talked to other people. He was ashamed that his voice sounded too light for a man in his late twenties. I remember when the pizza dude addressed him as "Ma'am" after he placed a phone order. He was so mad that he refused to drop a tip for the innocent delivery guy. Although his voice hasn't evolved, he had begun to adore it like the baritone he hoped it'll become. I'm proud of him. I always was. Too bad I can only share in this joy from a distance. 

As he jogged that day, the fog vanished slightly under his breath and the leftover winter breeze rose the hair strands on his knuckles. After spending a few weeks in coma, his cardiologist recommended a regular dose of exercise. Gradually, a doctor's advice turned into a habit he held onto no matter the weather, tide or tempest. He'd run with his headphones hanging loosely from his earlobes to the back of his neck, while his hand fed water from the plastic bottle to his dry mouth. When I  ran passed him, he cleaned his eyes and turned back to check if I was still there. Our eye contact made his heart stop with fear, but the look on his face bore no recognition of who I was. I had shown him glimpses of myself on random occasions, yet he acted triggered by my presence. He continued his exercise, but at a significantly higher speed than before.

The protrusions beneath his nike boots didn't hesitate to leave footprints on the melting snow. There was a clear path but he preferred to jog along the snow. As an aftermath of the coma, he developed some trouble remembering little things, so he liked to retrace his steps just incase he ever forgot his way back home. Well, that wasn't the only affected aspect of his life. 

During one of his live radio podcasts, he said, 

"How did your day went?! " 

That was his first day at his new job. He couldn't explain why he was so clumsy, but he was ashamed of himself as he awaited the worst. That evening, his "great error" hovered the streets of twitter leaving a lingering stench of failure only him could perceive. The next morning, he was greeted by a letter on the desk of his crammed up studio. The last thing he needed was a sack note or a query as he was still striving to pay off his accumulated hospital bills. He didn't like his job very much, but he knew it'll take a long time before he found another one. The thoughts of debt and bankruptcy left him with an uninvited siege of headaches. To keep himself composed, he ignored the letter and carried on with his normal work routine. The office seemed a little bit noisy. There was a highlight of celebration in the air, but he shrugged it off.

He started his podcast. Almost three minutes in, he let off another grammatical blunder. He felt his heart betray him as it pumped out of its spine. His palm, so sweaty that it slipped through the microphone he held unto. He tried to put himself together, but each sentence came out worse than the one before it. Immediately after the podcast, the door was violently thrown open. The CEOs daughter dashed in. She ran towards him with her stern brown eyes. He couldn't tell the emotions hiding behind her iris. His head was blank, but the closer she got, he more he felt his feet tremble within the boundaries his torn stockings. 

"Boom" 

He felt her head fall heavily on his stud chest as her arms wrapped tightly around his waist. Then, she looked at him in no ordinary way; the zing between them was undeniable. Some part of me wished that she'd given him a slap instead of an embrace, but that was jealousy trying to take me for a ride. Her mother, the CEO, stood at the door along with a dozen other employees. He was confused until they began to clap their hands in applaud. He didn't expect it, but he tried not to act too surprised or everything might get ruined. He drank the yellow sparkly wine served in the slim tall glass. After a while, he summoned the courage to check the content of the letter he had found earlier that morning. It read:

" Nice comedy. Keep up with the blunders, son! " 

The only thing more beautiful than those words was the cursive handwriting it was delivered in; each stroke delicately drawn like the Mona Lisa. That sentence gave him the sense of what a real family could be. Having grown up in a foster home, he could only imagine the luck of being called 'son' instead of 'kid'. Both words referred to the same being, but each held a density only his broken mind could fathom. The radio station which hired him out his of desperation now held onto him as their most treasured staff: their son. His viral twitter blunders had managed to attract multiple audience and advertisement offers within the space of two days, a height that the crippling media company couldn't achieve since their origin. Again, I craved to be happy with him, but I could only watch from a distance. I understood the work it took to wipe away his tormenting past, but I was tired of just sticking around. I needed to prove my existence.

That evening, as he drove his rusty truck back home, I waited at the opposite end of the creek where the roads became narrower, lonelier and darker. In due time, I noticed the yellow beam from his headlights. He was a quarter mile from where I stood: the perfect distance. Right at the center of the road, my flickering form hovered two feet above the ground and created the illusion of a blurred swirling mist. I knew he saw me when his vehicle swerved violently from left to right before finally passing through me and stopping abruptly. Immediately he came down from the vehicle, I perceived his fear and held unto my eerie look. He grabbed a steel bar from his trunk and held it in his right arm for self defense.

"If a fast-moving heavy-duty vehicle couldn't hurt me, then what will a steel bar do," I thought. 

It was a ridiculous decision, but fear had the upper hand. He abandoned the truck and ran to the St. Pedro Temple, a nearby church where he had spent a fraction of his childhood. By morning, he walked out with two clergy men who sprayed holy water around the scene. He told them the faint memories he had of his coma and swore that the demon he saw last night was exceedingly familiar. First of all, I was offended by his choice of words. Calling me a demon was more demeaning than calling me a ghost. I am his soul. I hated that he went back home and burnt sages and cloves at the corners of his house to repel me. Even though the ritual was only a myth humans clung unto, I was hurt by his intentions. The burning of herbs doesn't have the power to restrict a spirit, but we from the beyond interprete it as a signal of unwantedness.

 How could I stay away when I am him and he is me? 

The only reason he got out of his coma alive was because I agreed to be replaced by a new soul. Most spirits would rather perish with their bodies, but I let mine go because of the love I had for him. I had been with him through his times of despair and hardship, so I wanted him to live and experience the juicer part of life. Everyone deserves that.