Just a Pain Reliever (Pinili Series #1)

Chapter 29

Flipped

Later. Maybe. Perhaps. I suppose. I guess. Yes. Not. 

Inconsistencies in those words, their tone, meaning, and attitude, everything was once uncertain to me. If I replied no, in my deepest reaches of heart, I only desired to plead with the person who asked me to question me again, to repeat his query again, and to tell me how significant my presence was. And if I said maybe, or later, I knew that I was not comfortable with the question at all, or perhaps, I could not bring myself to answer it. And when I uttered "yes", I am aware that within my heart, I was not agreeing at all, that I was torn between telling the truth and lying. And so, I was, after all, paradoxical.

I always hear people utter the phrase "I love you" as an alternative to "goodbye." This phrase sounded harsh, plain, and insincere. Its meaning did not carry any sincerity for me. It was nothing but a replacement of farewells, vanishing, and forgetting. It was always spoken with veiled hypocrisy, guilt, and dishonesty. And I grew to love it every single day, since my feet touched the earth's womb. And so, I thought love was a lie that was meant to be treasured. Because... love is love.

I had been perfectly fine, or so I thought. I was fine, searching for some warmth to intoxicate my nothingness. I was fine with being swooned by the fire of my daydreams. I was fine. I was not unstable at all. I was strong and brave. Or so I thought. And if people asked if I was living an ecstatic life behind the golden gates of my aunt's and uncle's mansion, I would often reply, "Yes." And if they asked me if I was shattered by the loss of my parents' existence, I would answer, "No." With a deadpan face, with no sign of remorse or anguish, I would lie and lie. Because love is a lie that I learned from my own roots. And why wouldn't I show them how muddied my thoughts were? Because was I afraid they would have laughed at me, humored me with uncomforting words, and told the heavens I was too young to feel the weight of the world's wrath and jealousy? Or was it because of the pressure of being suspected as nothing but a teenager going through her rebellious phase, and placing it under the pretext of delinquency? And so, they could not sympathize with my ache. Did I want the world to sympathize? Or would I rather live a life longing for a million little shadows? Who cares, and who truly wonders? 

I look back to that summer. It is the season of warmth and heat, as people often say. And yes, it was quite a mixture of salt and sugar for me. It was quite bitter and sweet. The noise of the cicadas, birds, and roosters as the morning glory arises; my room, despite how bright the pigments on the walls were, remained colorless to me. Our balcony, kitchen, and bathroom, which were envied by the neighborhood, whispered nothing but misery. The freshness of the air, the exhalations of the flowers' fragrance, meant nothing but a foul, devious passion. Every summertime, I grew to learn that my life, despite being flooded with gold and silver spoons, bore nothing but unwanted love. Although I was mindless in their eyes, I understood their unfulfilled gazes, their unfinished kisses, and the distance between their touches. It was a sham and made-believe. And despite being the season of warmth, I came to realize that it was nothing but a bloom of languor and secrecy. I am not blind and deaf enough to not see and hear their unpronounced regrets and swathed despair. I had seen and heard it all. All of it. And I was only a child.

"I love you, Alannah." 

I smiled. 

"I love you, baby." 

I smiled and smiled. 

"We love you so much." 

I smiled, smiled, and smiled.