She knew better this time.
Even as she felt the knots scrunching up in her tummy, and the creepy-crawly sensations that slid around within her chest, she merely let out a soft sigh.
Her fingers itched to call him, but it was less than two months since they last spoke.
No matter how much it took for her to suppress the urge, she was certain it would get easier. Watching the clock tick made it better, she persuaded herself. As long as day turned to night, she was certain she could let the feelings pass too. Perhaps it would be better not to make any rash moves, she reminded herself. She did not need another rejected call to ascertain that he cared less for her that he claimed he did. It wasn’t the first time she had to endure such emotions, and it surely wasn’t the last.
But she would learn, she reassured herself.
It had taken years, but she was positive that she could learn not to think of him.
The tense turns mellow.
A geek turns wild child.
The stickler turn non-conformist.
We’ve asked why. We’ve assumed reasons – the whats and whens and whos.
But perhaps the real question of how matters more.
How did this situation cause you to make adjustments to life?
How had this person convinced you to detract from your usual self?
How could an incident have resulted in such a transformation?
Perhaps an unconscious move; otherwise, a deliberate choice.
Why do people change, and for better or worse?
You see, most of life is a blur at first. Then comes the obstacles – rocky, challenging, numerous. But as we keep going, they seem to get a little more manageable. They didn’t lessen; they merely become less important. Even the barriers put in place cannot stop us from flowing through.
At the end? At the end we finish off as ashes in the sea, mixed within the rocks that line the shore.
Writing about it did him more harm than good. It didn’t make him any more certain about the situation. It didn’t help him forget her. But strangely enough, it didn’t help him to feel better about them either.
He tried to describe as vividly as he could, the day he had met her. He wrote fervently about the light that lit her silhouette, her eyes that glittered with the sheer hint of light that night. Then he typed fastidiously in an attempt to document every word and touch they had exchanged over time.
As he tried to weave their tale into a coherent story, he realised that there was hardly a story. No, there wasnt. There were countless expressions of affection from him to her. There were endless nights that he longed for her that it hurt his body and soul. There were infinite moments of closeness that he once held on dearly to. But to say they had an experience to retell or a relationship to cherish made almost a mockery to the true definitions of the words.
Perhaps putting these down in tangible words could help, he thought.
He kept up with writing, scribbling, typing, and back to thinking again. But slowly, as more days passed, less made sense. Feelings began to fade, and his resolute was evidently shaken. He could hold on the the last threads of memories, but the emotions were drained.
Did you still like her? They asked. This time, he wasn’t sure anymore.
He wasn’t upset.
He wasn’t tired or stressed.
He definitely wasn’t angry.
He was just being himself.
“Serious as hell,” someone whispered, in sync with the rustling of paperwork that piled on his desk.
“Moody bugger,” another said, as he frowned at the 600 e-mails he had to clear.
“Authoritarian!” a murmur was heard just as he backed his chair away and hurried to the next meeting room.
No, he wasn’t upset – not technically. He wasn’t tired or stressed – not really. And he definitely wasn’t angry.
He just want to get the work done and move on with life, preferably without the fools that lingered in his presence, trying with their limited capacity to speculate his emotions.
Need a new lighthouse keeper? Here’s a tiny light…
And hey, never too small to do the job! Maybe not the most qualified. But who is to say otherwise? What’s wrong with giving it a try?
Sitting in the middle of a box, she was unsure of where to lean. The left was filled with thorns. The right was laced with poison. The front was tattered and slippery. The back? Don’t even think about it; that was where she fell through and landed in this square of unknowns.
Now what couls she do, except to continue sitting smack in the middle of the box?