Moldberry

Since I was little, I've always wanted a pet cat.

I remember the promise my grandpa made for my sixth birthday. I was four when that promise was made, I think. He told me, on my sixth birthday I would be allowed to keep a cat of my favorite color.

I was four. My mind was still colorful with imaginations. Innocent ones. (I felt the need to bring that up because, you see, I still am a person with colorful imaginations up to this day, but my head has long been filled with dishonorable fouls. I can't imagine a man without making their private parts the most highlighted thing). So, with all my childish confidence, I told my grandpa I wanted a blue cat.

He said it was impossible, and so I settled with white.

It's quite funny in a tragic way, or tragic in a funny way (it's all up to you, dear readers, to decide), that white had happened to be the color of the first flower I got in my life. (Not to brag, but I've received some flowers in my life, though all of them are man-made. I hope I'll get some real ones for my funeral).

Him: "What is it? Don't like it?"

Me: "..."

Him: "I can buy another one of your favorite color. Where are you going? Don't go!"

Silly boy. Blue roses aren't real.

But so are blue cats.

Silly me.

I wish I had accepted that white rose from you.

Oftentimes I would find myself wondering if we would've still been friends today, if only...

If only—what? Your death was something beyond every ifs I could think of. You didn't decide to die. You just had to die—

—when our friendship was on an uncertain pause.

Why was there even a pause on friendships? I couldn't understand when my friend (from campus) said she was on a break with her boyfriend. "You broke up with him?" I asked, though I was nowhere interested in that topic. "Oh, no, no." She was shaking her head so aggressively, as if what I said was entirely wrong. "We're just having a break."

You should've seen, dear readers, how hard I tried to hold myself from laughing out loud.

Me: "Was it a one-sided love all this time?"

Her: "Oh, no, no. We both still love each other. We just need a break."

Why must there be a break between two people that love each other?

But you are having a break with her, withering child.

You do love her, do you not?

What a funny tragedy. A tragic joke.

What have I become?

Once, there was a boy who called me a naughty child.

"But you're the safe type of naughty," he said, "I feel like you understand me best."

Perhaps you exaggerated. No. What I mean to say is, you really did exaggerate.

I understood nothing about you. Nothing at all.

"I like you," you said. Not even that I understood.

But love (or fondness) can be simple, albeit sometimes demanding and destructive. You liked me when I couldn't find any reason for myself to be liked. You liked me when I myself didn't.