I think I care, or maybe I don't...

Dear God:

Mr. Milcayac and I have finally reached our destination. Fortunately, everything is going well. We have already spent two weeks here, familiarizing ourselves with the place and the premises. My lord, I know that we have not come here to sightsee and I assure you that the next time I write to you, it will be to tell you how your word is accepted in this place. You know that I am not the one who writes to you most often, but I swear that this is not due to laziness or lack of faith. Others may write to you daily, but for what purpose? I believe that I should only turn to you if the situation warrants it, or else I could fall into the greatest of human weaknesses: dependency.

After considering the problem for a long time, I came to the conclusion that it really was important enough. I know I said that everything was fine. That's true, because I was referring to our trip and future plans. Lately, I feel that… that… that… that I feel? Excuse me. I'm an adult, I should know. And yet I can't say for sure. I wouldn't know what word to use to describe my feelings about it. Confusion? Frustration? Uncertainty? I don't know, but it's not a nice feeling. Let's leave it at that, because my feelings don't matter here.

Mr. Milcayac is the problem here. I am not insinuating that his person is a problem as such. Of course not. I respect him and greatly appreciate his help. I think he has a problem that could significantly affect our mission, because it is already beginning to affect our fellowship. If such thing exists, because it still feels wrong to call him by his first name, so I don’t.

-I see you can't sleep either.

That voice can only belong to…

-Mr. Milcayac?

If I had known he would be awake at this hour, I would have stayed in my room. I should have expected it, it’s not like the kitchen is a good place to hide.

-I thought you were sleeping.

-I also did. But just lying down with your eyes closed is not sleep, unfortunately. What were you doing, may I ask?

He quickly turned his back on me and started looking for something in the cupboards. He doesn’t seem really interested in my answer. I guess he’s one of those people who feel compelled to speak in order to make a situation less awkward, but that poor attempt at conversation just adds to the awkwardness. But maybe I'm wrong, after all, what do I know about the kind of person Milcayac is?

-Mr. Milcayac, this is awkward.

I had to say it. I can't stand pretending and playing mind games. They only make communication worse. Can't we just acknowledge a problem and then work on a solution? I looked at the letter, still unfinished. Maybe I shouldn't send it. This could be a test, and a very important one.. If I can't solve a problem between us, will I be able to solve bigger problems?

Right after that thought, he laughed a little.

-You’re not helping. Stating something doesn’t make it better.

How it doesn’t?

-Would you rather be uncertain about everything, then?

-Can you tell me where the coffee is? It seems to have disappeared…

-It’s in the tea box. - Ignoring Mr. Milcayac’s confused look, I added- Now, can you please answer my question?

-Well, about uncertainty, I think it can be good. Because, you can believe whatever you like the most.

-But, wouldn’t that be deceiving yourself?

I just don’t understand such thinking. We have our differences, I’m aware of that. Even so, I still looked at Mr. Milcayac as a cultured, educated and rational person. Perhaps I’m not good at seeing trough people.

-You can call it that way. I call it, dealing with what you can deal with. It isn’t good to stress yourself over the worst case scenario, when you’re not even sure if it’s actually happening.

If that’s what Mr. Milcayac’s personal philosophy is like, getting along seems harder than I thought.

-By the way, I’m sorry for sleepwalking like this. I know you weren’t expecting any company while writing that.

He looked at the letter, and before I realized it, I took it in my hands.

-Don’t worry, I wasn’t going to read it. I respect privacy.

-But I wanted privacy. And if you knew it, why did you came here then?

-I couldn’t help it. I wanted coffee to help me sleep.

Never in my life had I imagined I would hear someone wanting coffee for that. But Mr. Milcayac was there, mug in hand ready.

-Coffee…helps you sleep?

-I know my body very well. Coffee definitely helps. Also, my mother used to give me a cup every night...

-Your mother?

I’ve seen her before, but in rare occasions. Last time I did, I was still a child. She was probably the prettiest mom in town. But, the best one for parenting? I don’t think so.

-Yes. At least, she did whenever she was home.

If I’m remember correctly, that didn’t happen very often. I wanted to ask about it to Mr. Milcayac for reassurance, but it may be a delicate topic. However, he answered that shortly after taking a sip:

-Even when she wasn’t I would still make coffee myself. I…couldn’t let go of the tradition, I guess. I pretty much did everything she would do if wasn’t gone.

-You missed her.

I figured he did. I don’t remember her being always available for her son. Sure, Mr. Milcayac always had his father. But sometimes, I wondered if having a living and healthy mother and still being deprived form her presence would have an impact on him. At least, I could say that my own mother wasn’t with me because she wasn’t in the best conditions. And Mrs. Milcayac? Apparently, she had no excuses.

-No, no. I knew I would see her soon, someday. Maybe…like I said, I was accustomed to her ways.

-How often did you see her?

He took a long sip.

-I can’t tell you. It was totally unpredictable. Maybe she was home for a week, or only for a day…

Didn’t he just said uncertainty was fine moments ago?

-It bothered you, I suppose.

-No. I like surprises, it’s fine.

If Mr. Milcayac wanted that last phrase to be an affirmation, he made it sound like a question by the way he voiced it.

-Besides, maybe she was just busy and used all her free time to visit me. I can’t blame her. - He said, barely making any pauses to separate his words.

“Maybe”. He can only say “maybe”. He doesn’t have the answer, doesn’t he?

Why he didn’t asked her, then?

As soon as I opened my mouth to ask him, he left after a quick “Good night!” mug put in the sink with carelessness.

The coffee left there had to be at least five centimetres long. It was definitely not close to being finished.

What happened? I’m not sure.

I guess I’ll have to believe whatever I like.