happy endings are for fairy tales // kiani au

THIRTEEN: WILL

2 june 2016

the sky is stirring into an orange and pink canvas. crickets chirp, hidden in the freshly mowed grass. white wooden chairs. a boy and a girl, in their front lawn, staring above. a rustle of a nearby bush. the sound of crows flying away. a small house, straight out of a fairy tale.

perfect on the outside, broken on the inside.

after all, we're only dolls positioned in a romantic charm, with two entangled hearts tied together in sticky and abrasive rope, dying to detach from each other.

i silently push myself up, break the lovesick spell beguiling us. bianca doesn't move an inch, just directs her eyes into mine. they're already tired and empty, though; abandoned by all hope and joy, too worn out to feel anything. i leave without a single word.

there is nothing left to say, thing's are different now. thing's always turn out different before they die or flourish. sometimes it's hard to tell which way it's going to head, but not this time.

"look, i'm only asking you what you've been doing all this time," bianca's come back into the house. i don't look at her, "you used to come home everyday, and now i barely see you 2 times on the weekdays."

i pause at her statement for a while, words swimming in my head like fish in a pond, slipping out of my hands whenever i try to grab a hold of one. i contemplate if it would be worth it to have another argument.

"i was with jordan. you know that."

the frown tightens between her eyebrows, "huh, 'i was with jordan'? correction: you're always with jordan. i wonder why you haven't become his boyfriend yet."

i stiffen. out of all the words which she could say, those were some i never would have expected. it feels like a personal blow, like someone had pointed one of my insecurities, mocked it. suddenly, i'm back in middle school with that classmate, the one who always wore that stupid leather jacket everywhere, the one who said the mole above my lips was a witch's wart.

ever since then, i've occasionally caught myself scratching at it, as if it would pop off if i tried hard enough.

now, with this personal attack from my own fucking girlfriend, i don't know how long i will spend trying to erase the thought of having jordan as something more than a friend.

my lips tighten into a straight line as i try to think of something in response. do i deny it? i mean, it's not like i really want to be his boyfriend. it's wild imaginary. so what? ignore it? no, that seems like a silent agreement to her statement, which is off.

"he's a friend. it's what you do when you have a friend, you hang out with them," i emphasise on the last four words, lengthening them and rolling them on my tongue explicitly, "and for the record, i have no interest in being his boyfriend."

she sighs, closes her eyes, "good. thank god for that. i'd spend my whole life hating myself if i had fallen for someone that didn't even like my fucking gender."

i don't like her tone when she says that. i don't like what she said either. so i pretend i didn't hear anything and she's the totally innocent, kind, caring person i saw her as the first time we met.

i feel, more than see, her stare burning on my turned cheek. she's waiting for a reply, preying on this soft spot of mine, seeing my silence as defeat. i don't want to argue, but if anything, the distaste of giving her that satisfaction of winning is stronger.

i stare her straight in the eyes, will her to look away, "this is about you thinking that i don't come home enough, and all you've only talked about my sexuality and jordan. but you see, those two aren't the fucking problem. the problem is me, leave him the fuck out of it, ok?"

her stare doesn't go away, it hardens, "fine. fine, let me say, then: you're spending more time with a friend than with you're own girlfriend. i'm here waiting, alone, making dinner and you don't even show? what the fuck, will? what happened to us?"

i swallow down my saliva. i don't have an answer to that. what happened to us? it's a good question. i don't know the answer.

i remember better days. everyday, i would come back to this palace. put on the prince charming suit. meet cinderella in the living room. smile that shining toothy grin. at night, i would stare up at the ceiling with my hand in hers. pondering what the hell i was doing. wondering if this was the feeling of love. convincing myself that love was more than this, and if i pushed on, i would find light leading the way. i would find love in bianca if i stuck around to search deep enough.

have i given up? is that it? we have been dating for a year now, living together for 6 months. where did i lose my drive? when did i let go? why did i stop trying?

maybe it's because my heart is dragging me in multiple directions. but that isn't supposed to be. love stories aren't supposed to end like this. prince charming wasn't supposed to dump cinderella for another princess. they were supposed to be a happily ever after. we are supposed to be a happily ever after.

a thought crosses my mind as i stare intensely at a cup made of a thick layer of glass. i could slam my fist on this table right now, and it would fall and crash. thing is, at any time, the tall solider standing its ground could have toppled and been broken. it looks stiff and strong, yet it's fragile and so easily crushed, waiting for the right time to break, preying on a situation to show its true colours. i get it. this brokenness, this strain to our relationship, it was always there. and now that we're on a bumpy road, the ugly side is showing.

because this isn't a new thing. it isn't my fault, it's been crawling under our skin this whole time. the way i have to pretend to be a different person around her. the way i even had to search for love in her because the person in front of me was simply an empty blank waiting to be filled in.

right from the start, we were never meant to be. bianca isn't the person i want to live my entire life with. not by a long shot.

"let's break up," i blurt out.

"what?" her heart has skipped a beat, i can feel it in my own chest. i've got her knocked down now, stability shaken up by the lack of foundation: the expectation that i would never leave her.

"i'm breaking up with you," i repeat myself. sternly. my mind spurs with feelings and i try not to collapse on my knees at the very thought of not having her around.

she stares at me in disbelief, eyes widened and parted lips bent in a crooked smile. she produces an unrecognizable noise, a laugh and a gasp at the same time, "you're kidding me."

"no. no, i'm not kidding," i say, "i think we're better off as friends."

she shakes her head. once. twice. thrice. each one more intense than the one before, "shut up."

"i mean it. i can move out if you want, the lease is running out anyway–"

"shut up. shut the fuck up," she says monotonously, continuing to shake her head like she can't process my words. she walks away and locks the bedroom door behind her.

i should have went after her. made her listen. told her i treasured her unconditionally, as a friend or as a lover.

instead, i push that damned cup onto the floor. watching it explode into shards, i let one pierce into my leg. a price to pay. feeling like i deserve the pain, because as much as i try, i feel numb. there is no emotional pain. there is only this, a bleeding wound on my leg. that's it.

i had no clue that while i was standing there, staring at the blood oozing out of my leg, i had made a frozen, haunting memory i would have never been able to forget.