resolution♔ z.m

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Of all the lies, “I love you,” was my favourite.

           In about four minutes, midnight will strike and she won’t be mine.

I tried to distract myself with academic words and letters, but they didn’t help. Neither did the p in please or f in forever rewind things or erase memories. The h in hurt was more like the h in hell, because right now, I didn’t know what was happening to my soul. It was lost, probably. Probably her lies made me feel lost. Probably. I hated that word as much as I hated heavy rains splattering against my window, as much as I hated her leaving my bed in the early mornings of Monday, but today, she was leaving for good. Maybe she wasn’t, I don’t know, because all she ever told me were lies; lies that I had seemed to believe and drown in, only to suffocate and feel my blood vessels dilate in slow motion with my heartbeat thumping in my ears like in the movies. Yes, just like the movies.

           It is probably October, I’m not sure; my love for her is timeless. It is too early to sleep, probably because I don’t sleep at nights but at mornings when it’s almost five, but she always considered midnight a morning, not like there were reasons that I understood.

           “It’s obviously August,” she says in a tone you’d probably use when saying “one plus one equals two.” She also gives me the disappointing look, almost like the look I got from my mother when I had my first F in biology, (I was shit at it, anyway.) she sits beside me as I lay behind her, with eyes redder than the wine we drank last night in jolly moods and drunken kisses. ”Too bad, too late,” her words go round and round in my head like a Ferris wheel and I am ninety eight percent sure she is about to say that right now, but her lips form a thin line and her words seem to be hooked in her throat. She looks at me, but I look past, limbs getting number with seconds as the countdown continues. Three minutes to twelve, I still feel as bad as I did a minute ago. I loved midnights; it was like an eclipse to my dawn and dusk, and more like the first sun ray that shone on her naturally curly hair that blended perfectly with my fingers as they hooked around each raven loop. But midnights don’t last, and probably that’s the reason she called it a morning because she hated facing pain.

          I thought about her sweet voi—

          “Zayn, I have something to tell you…”—ce and how she could hit those high notes. I love her falsetto, her chest voice, and the sweater that hung loosely enough to cover up her knees and how perfect it fitted her being a brune—“Zayn, you know I will never leave you, right?” it hit me like a tsunami, the moment she stood up and looked down at me, folding her arms, still wearing the sweater I bought for her during spring, accurately during March when she said she felt too cold when I wasn’t around and I offered her this with my cologne. “You know that I love you, right?” I hated the way she’d say the words right, probably and obviously. It was as though they have been doubted or forced, and when—“this is why things never workout with you, oh my god! I get so, so tired…” ironically, she drags her suitcase out of the apartment and though I am on my feet, pulling her back and still struggling with words to say, I wonder why she has to do this right now. I thought we were okay and we were going to pull through this, and not pull out.

          “why?”

          “because, i met someone else, zayn. Things happen, and I—don’t do that to me, don’t you dare make me look like the villain here!” someone else? Am I dreaming? what do you mean someone else? when—what?

          “You were gone for too long, you know, the tour, and you had lots of things going on and, I know, hey—“ she keeps talking, talking and talking, waving her hand in front of me, tears streaming down her cheeks trying to pull away my palms from my face. Why is she crying? What was she putting out this act for?

“I love you, I swear.”

“why?”

“because things aren’t meant to last.” And maybe it was my turn to call midnights, mornings.