War's Over

Snip.

"I just want answers."

Snip.

"I don't think they're mine to give."

Snip.

"I understand."

Snip.

"Unless... can you keep a secret?"

Snip.

Chunks of hair fell on the bathroom floor as I shake my head. Facing the mirror, I grabbed my glasses that sat on the sink and looked at the girl with the haphazard hair, scissors on one hand, with bangs that scream murder. I looked at my pale, cracked lips and remembered how badly I need water, especially after yesterday. I sighed, seeing at how uneven left and right sides of my hair were.

Snip.

That should do it, I though. I was satisfied with the way the right side was an inch longer than the left. In my head, I imagined how it would all look with some hair dye. Pink? Green? Grey? I couldn’t quite decide.

Girl, you’re going mad.

Am I? I don’t think so. Cutting your hair with no pattern, no shape, and no order doesn’t warrant an insanity diagnosis. I’m just being a teenager – reckless and carefree. I don’t give a damn about what others think. I don’t care if they think I’m weird. I love my hair. I really do. I love it so much.

I heard my phone ping. Paul’s asking if I’m okay. After the bomb he dropped yesterday? I’m fine. I’m totally fine. I even feel free. I’m as free as I could get. I’m freer than I ever was. I’m as free as a bird on a horizon, flying towards somewhere better, somewhere that makes more sense than everything I’ve found out in the past 24 hours.

I know Paul’s regretted telling me and maybe a part of me is mad for asking, for saying yes, for thinking I could keep all sorts of secrets like I’ve always had, but this one, this one piece of information, just bears down on me like a ship’s anchor, dragging me deeper. It sunk me into a place farther from the waves, and that’s how I found out that sometimes, I’d rather be caught in a riptide than lie hollow in the seafloor.

I’ve thought that after all these months, nothing else could break me. I was already broken – what else could I shatter into? I had spent more than a year moping in misery, drowning myself in alcohol, work and guilty pleasures that would make my Catholic school nuns weep for my soul. I was confident that I had developed a better threshold of disappointment and heartache. I had promised myself, I wouldn’t cry for him again, whatever I’ll learn, whatever I’ll know.

Two years had passed since he’d left me without a word, without an explanation. My world had revolved around him and it stood still with his desertion. But I refused to be let down like that – I pestered him for reasons. I kept asking “Why?” For months I sounded like a broken record until he caved in. He told me it just wouldn’t work out, that his family just couldn’t accept somebody like me – a modern woman who rebelled against the conservative traditions of our society. A girl with skimpy shorts who loved to skip mass just wasn’t worthy in the eyes of his mother who’ve always gone to church in a skirt that fell just right above her ankles.

With that, I strove harder to show that I could be someone worthy. I bade goodbye to my skin-showing fashion and transitioned into jeans, long skirts and blouses. I became more withdrawn, refusing invitations, and spent more hours on study, on projects, on anything I could join. I became a workaholic, taking in more load than I could, striving to get to the best, to the top, even if the price be high, even if the price be my sanity. I was going to prove my worth, prove that I could get him back, that I could sway his family’s perception of me. I prayed for their blessing each and every night, right after I’d shed tears for him again.

At some point, however, I just gave up. I gave up when I noticed he couldn’t care less over my achievements. I gave up when he wouldn’t even give me a side glance when I pass by him. I gave up when I noticed him leaving the room when I entered. I gave up when all my messages were left unread and unanswered, and I realized that I’ve been fighting for a war and cause that didn’t even exist.

That was the point I sunk for the first time. I traded the jeans and blouses for clothes that revealed more of me than I’ve ever shown before. I tagged along with the rough crowd, drinking until I couldn’t tell right from left. I stopped giving a damn about everything.

But in the midst of all of those, something just didn’t make sense. No matter how hard I tried to shake off the though, there was something missing and I just know that there was a bigger reason why he left. I’ve known him for more than four years – I know when he’s keeping something.

I found myself obsessing over it, wanting to discover where and when it all felt apart. I found myself staring at his phone number, trying to gather the courage (or insanity) to just ask him for the truth. I needed the real explanation. I needed it for my peace.

In this pursuit of an explanation, I found my path tangled with one of his friends. Maybe I sought Paul out as an option, a way to move on, but he just wasn’t it. We were better off as friends and he listened to every question that I had – questions I never got to ask anyone. Questions about him. And these questions led to last night.

“I just want answers.”

“I don’t think they’re mine to give.” I could see in the way that Paul’s voice dropped soft and his gaze shift, he knows why. He knows the truth.

“I understand.” I really do. Paul doesn’t owe me anything. He does. But Paul doesn’t.

“Unless… can you keep a secret?” If I could turn back time, I would go back to two years ago, when I can ask him about the truth. I would make it confess it because I know that no one else owed it to me more than he did. But I don’t have a time machine. I’d have to settle with anyway I can get the answer to my “why?”

“He’s gay.”

“Are you sure?” I could feel the tears.

“Yes.”

“Thanks for telling me.” I’ve felt my heart crack hard and sharp two years ago and I never want to feel that again. But in that instant, I felt the wounds open. It’s not that I’m homophobic or I can’t accept that he’s gay. It’s just that I realized that all this time, I wasn’t looking for an answer to my “why”. I was looking for a reason to hold on.

I kept searching for an answer hoping that the explanation would be something I could disprove or maybe compensate for. I hoped that by knowing, I could still convince him to make it work out, make him believe that such reason is just too base or frail for us to not get back together. But with this revelation, I had to face the truth – I really had fought for a war that’s long been over, for a cause that’s long been dead. That’s what broke me.