Seattle • November 20, 1992 • فيزا
It's been four days, three fashion photoshoots and a successful university exam since the last time I heard from my ex boyfriend (I don't even wanna name him anymore 'cause it hurts, ha), it's been four days since he put me at crossroads and I had no choice but to dump him... and saying that I'm feeling like a trainwreck would be a little bit of an understatement. This is the first time we go without talking to eachother for so long, and the first time we don't even make the effort to either call/leave eachother a message, as the last time we were in coldish terms we'd still manage to find five minutes off the daily grind, put the pride aside, and hit the other one up, one way or another... but everything is different these days. More painful. More intense, in the most negative meaning of the expression. Definitely more irremediable, too. Because y'know, I would never want to say this, and I hate myself for saying this... but a few days into this sea of silence and turmoil, vulnerability too because I'm just a girl who's a little too much in love with a guy who's pretty fucking undeserving of my goodness... I don't regret the way I handled Sean (FUCK, I said his name), as he was the mind behind his 'tactics' and hence the architect of his own destiny, but I miss him loads. More than words could ever be able to convey. More than my poor, far too broken heart can withstand. I would never want to say what I'm about to say, part two, but I'll say this anyways because that's how I feel, four days in without even hearing a single word from him: I miss him so much, I literally can't help but swoon at the memory of how he'd hit me up and sing me a different song everyday, before that chaotic fucking exchange of four days ago occurred. And I can't help but cry, if I think that these days, whenever I wake up in the morning/get back home from a day spent running errands or whatever that might be, I don't find any tone deaf, singing message from him in my voicemail. Not even just a message and that's it. And that, beloved book of my secrets, is the blatant proof that we're over, and that this time there's nothing I can do to change things. There's no turning back from the 'that's a wrap' of a few days ago, he's got it threaded around his pointer finger and so do I, because we're both stubborn fucking people... and although I know I did a good thing, standing my ground in front of his shitty ultimatum and all, I can't help but wishing I'd been more considerate. More mindful of his feelings, and of mine too. Because if there's someone suffering from our breakup the most, it's gotta be me, and I'm well aware of it. Like I'm well aware that 'dumping' him was my loss in the end. Because reasonably, while I'm here pulling my bike in front of the entrance of the nearest Starbucks to my house, desperately trying to hold back the tears and to fight the bitterness inside of me... what is he doing? Probably just getting drunk and drunkenly wooing chicks to pass the time. And to feel like he doesn't have to get back to me in order to feel desired and/or desirable. Anyone out there can easily give him what I used to, with no further strings attached... and I bet he's digging it. And for as long as he's happy, I'm happy too.
But I'm not happy in my current headspace, and that's because the unexpected has been happening to me for days in a row, in so many different ways and in so many different forms... but sadly, Sean has never once been the subject of it. The miracle or the closest to that as it gets happened to me when I got a call from my mama last night, and although she was pretty cold and offish to me the entire time... we still managed to have a rather civilised exchange, in and through. She told me that she's pregnant, pregnant of eight weeks to be precise, and I legit cried my heart out in happiness finding out that my dream of nineteen years of being a big sister was finally becoming true. I wish I could be here with mom now, hugging her and rubbing her tiny, tiny baby bump, which is unironically much the envelope of my baby brother or sister... but I can't because I'm working like a donkey and studying like a nerd, and so I will be until the festive season later this December. I had plans to leave Seattle on the 23rd or so, and head back home to spend some much deserved time with my family... but my agent booked me a job for that day, and being the job in question a music video, a music video for a band that's waaaay, way more famous than my ex boyfriend's (suck my dick, SEAN) it is not known whether we will get it over with in a whole day's worth of takes. My fucking ugly and faded brown face will be on rotation on MTV (not Arabia, if you remember my joke aimed at my ex boyfriend's ex girlfriend), and that will come at the price of delaying my way back to where my heart is. Aka my real home that I so dearly miss. But I still like to see a silver lining in things, and I like to believe that somewhere mid festive season in what of Seattle, my surrogated, shitty home that doesn't feel like home at all, I'll get a glimpse of the man I'm still in love with. Because only the sight of him, even for just a second and even in a huge fucking crowd, would make this place slightly more bearable. And because let's not forget, wasn't he the one who told me he would've liked to get a break from me until Christmas time? What if it's gonna happen for real? Is there a chance it's gonna happen for real, given that we don't talk at all anymore... and that I have trouble falling asleep at night, knowing that he's received my package (containing a dried rose, a necklace that I personally beaded for him and lots of pictures of us when we used to be happy together) and he hasn't said one word about it? Not even a 'fucking fuck Faiza leave me the fuck alone, you and your fucking shit fuck's sake'? I'm impressed... and when I say that, I mean it in the most delusional, most fatalistic possible way. How to know we're over for good 101: written and directed by me, ghostwritten by Sean from several thousands miles of distance. Relationship goals.
