Merry isn’t merry when it’s Christmas.
Merry lost her loved ones – at least those that mattered – and had no one left to speak to when she was down; when she was proud; when she was in pain.
Merry could not understand why everyone was celebrating, when there was little but sadness that enveloped each living hour of her life.
Merry thought what it meant to be living in Hell, and while she tried hard to get there every holiday, she soon realised that she had been walking right through it all these while.
Happy isn’t happy as the year comes to a close.
He hasn’t achieved anything for the past 360 days.
What’s with the overly-positive tunes in the malls; and cheery greetings that everyone is throwing in at the end of a conversation?
He didn’t know that all problems would dissipate at the end of the year and disappear in the air.
He hadn’t found a solution to his job or relationship – nothing had gone right so far.
So while all those loving couples and perfect families went through the last days of a year, nobody remembered those who struggled to find joy in this fantastical world of festivities.
It seemed easy – “just be yourself”. Oh, those hated words.
How he hated it that the “himself” others saw, simply wasn’t real.
He had bent his back to make things happen. He had gone the extra mile – and another extra mile – to get what he wanted (and failed). He had been someone he hadn’t been, just to get what he wished he could. Wished. It remained a wish.
Funny how some people get what they didn’t even want, effortlessly.
Yet those who yearn, and make a concerted effort, never get there.
He heard the song on radio, repeating lines he no longer knew if they were true.
He hadn’t realised how much his life had changed since he had met her.
It had only been three months since their last meeting, but each day that went by without her presence felt worse.
He didn’t want to change her life; he couldn’t, anyway.
The knowledge pained him – wanting so badly to, yet knowing he shouldn’t, couldn’t, and wouldn’t.
It wasn’t as if she would agree to it; she had too much to lose.
It wasn’t as if she would, anyway; because she would never know.
No, he didn’t want to change her life, but he missed every moment he once had with her.
He didn’t deserve her time. He wasn’t entitled to see her smile. He had no right to hold her. Because someone else did.
“And I don’t want to change your life…” the song played on.
Didn’t he? How imprudent of him to have gotten into this state. Pathetic, to say the least.
He knew he couldn’t change her life; he could only walk away and slip away into the darkness…
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.
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.
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?