The 10 Things I Hate

First, I hate going outside. But now I stand in the middle of a crowd. I feel suffocated. I feel like their eyes can see past through my flesh and pick my flaws. I feel like the moment they see me they will immediately know my thoughts, my secrets, my failures.

Second, I hate walking across the road. It gives me anxiety. What if I die? What if I did something wrong? I watched too many movies, clearly. At least today, there are less people or cars.

I walk across the street. The air claps against me. At least that gives me air and ease a bit of the tension that has built up inside me. But it is still there—a dread inside, free floating somewhere in my gut. I want to pull it out but I am left with it inside me. 

Third, I hate cafes. But I push open the cafe door, anyway. The door jingles as I step inside. A smile forms on the woman behind the counter as she recognizes me. I push myself to the counter and form a smile. They say a smile can be reflected to a person’s eyes. I don’t know if my eyes reflect that fake smile or the surge of uneasiness inside.

“The usual?” But I see the woman’s eyes smile. 

“Yes, please,” I nod. I trace the marble counter with a finger, feeling the coldness against my skin as I wait for the woman to serve my drink. The cold makes me squeezy. Makes me want to run.

Before I can do so, the woman serves my drink. I bring it with me to a table far from a window and sit down, my back facing the cafe door.

Fourth, I hate not doing anything. I stare off the distance as I grip my drink with both hands, sipping it, biting the straw. The cold travels from my fingertips to my hands. My feet itches to get up and flee.

I should go. I shouldn’t have come here. I didn’t want to come here. 

I grip my cold latte tightly. I can feel my hands becoming numb from the cold. 

I shouldn’t have come here.

Fifth, I hate people when they give something to me. But a plate is placed on my table, a plate I didn’t order. A plate of chocolate cake and cookies, my favorites. 

I don’t want to owe anyone, and when I do, I always return it without any addition or reduction—as it is. I don’t want anyone to have the right to dangle anything from me to get any favor. I don’t want to do anything with a catch.

So, I stare at the plate. From the corner of my eye I see a man sit in front of me. I do not move. My eyes do not waver from the plate.

“How long have you waited?” He places his drink on the table.

“I’m sorry,” he says, “I needed to drop off something on the way.” He pushes the plate, “I brought you your favorite, I know you’ll like it.”

“What do you want in return?” I remember saying to him a few springs ago.

“Nothing,” he replied back.

I looked at him oddly. I was filled with doubt but he only replied with a smile—a smile that brought a sparkle to his eyes.

“Not everything needs to be paid back, sometimes people give you kindness and to accept it is already enough.”

Sixth, I hate not doing anything. I place my drink on the table. I wipe my clammy hand on my jeans, trying to wake it up from its cold slumber.

I meet his eyes. I still see the sparkle in his eyes just like I had seen that same spring. I realize it never went away.

“How was your day?” He asks.

“I…” I search for words. “Fine. It’s fine.” But the lie slips easily between my lips.

Of course, he catches the, easily. “Doesn’t seem like it?” He sips his latte, just like mine.

It was his favorite. He let me taste it one summer day and I fell in love with it. It became my comfort, and it became my favorite as well.

“We should stop… whatever this is.”

Seventh, I hate cafes. I hate how this is a place people meet, form relationships, and bond.

I met him here too, while I was having a breakdown over my academic load. I was in college. When I recall our first meeting, it brings laughter from me. Now, it only brings loss. Regret. Sadness.

Cafes are not the place where you end things. It should bring warmth and safety, not sadness and discomfort.

He freezes. “What? What do you mean?”

“I—I don’t think this is working. We should stop. For both of us.”

He puts down his drink, beside the untouched plate. 

He is silent for a while. I could hear every sound in the cafe. The laughter, the footsteps, the hum of the air conditioner, the jingle of the cafe as it opened and closed. The brewed coffee air seemed like a foreign invader instead of bringing comfort as it once did.

“What did I do?” He says, looking down staring at something I couldn’t see. “What can I do?” He looks up, “Tell me, let me know, what did I do wrong? I will change. You know I will.”

I know fully well.

Eighth, I hate walking across the street. But I must or else I will be left behind. 

I must do this because I do not want him to be left behind. I do not want him to be pulled back because of me.

He has adjusted for me. So many adjustments and I’m thankful for what he has done. And it makes me hate myself for being such a complicated clockwork. Why couldn’t I be normal like most people? 

I’m so selfish. And I hate myself for it.

“It’s not you,” I have realized the lights have turned green for me as well. “It’s me,” and it’s time for me to walk across the street. “You deserve someone much better than me. Someone who deserves you. Who accepts you as who you are, who doesn’t need to change just to please the other person—who doesn’t need...” my voice dies on my throat. Something itches behind my eye. I feel a heavy weight on my chest.

I hurriedly grab my drink and wash away the tears threatening on my throat. “Y-you don’t need me,” I finish. I put back the drink as though it burned me.

“But I need you.” He croaks, tears spilling down his cheeks. He was never ashamed of showing himself in front of others. And, I love him for it. 

“Please,” he stretches out his hand across the table, his hands open for me to lace mine, “Please.”

I stare at them. It feels like those hands had punched me, yet they are so far from me. I squeeze my hands in a tight ball under the table to stop myself from taking those slender hands that are always warm, that always bring reassurance.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper and stand up.

I’m sorry for being so selfish.

Ninth, I hate going outside. The cafe door rings as I step outside but I barely hear it from the racking waves that threaten to tear me down. I walk away from the cafe. Only until it was out of my sight that tears trickle down my cheeks. 

My heart aches. He did not deserve to be hurt. 

My eyes swim from all the tears. My head hurt from the pain that I have always tried it to hide. The battering drum of my heart deafens me. I steady myself on a nearby wall. Bawling my eyes out, screaming my heart out on the side of the street. 

Tenth, I hate people when they give something to me. I hate how they give me something that I will want to crave over and over again. I hate how they give me something that I cannot get myself. I hate them for lying that they do not want anything in return—because they do. They always want something.

But I couldn’t give it to them. 

I hate myself. I hate myself for not being able to give what they want. I hate myself for being selfish—I only receive and not give. 

But I realize that I must take care of myself. Give something to myself first before I give myself to others. Only then will I be able to give something in return—only then will I be able to accept others. 

I find myself standing near the street cross light. My mind was too preoccupied that I had not realized I had walked away from my spot.

I can see people glancing at me. I must have looked messy. I do not care. Let them watch me. 

The light turns green. I walk across the street.