Truth Untold

Trivia #2

Trivia #2 - What Does It Like to Miss You?

If hell does exist on earth, I am 100% sure that this feeling right now is one of many forms of hell. This, the feeling of missing you although you were sitting in front of me less than one foot across the table. I shouldn't have missed you, not when you were where you were—fresh in flesh all for me to stare as much as I'd like to. I shouldn't have missed you, not when you were never mine to miss in the first place. That brought us to my next point about missing you, whether this was real, whether missing you was real or it was only in my head. Because the truth is, I shouldn't have missed you. Is this even valid—my feeling? The hurt was real though. As much as I tried to deny it, I came to conclusion that this stupid fucking feeling was real. The hurt was too much to bear, it must be real.

On some days, missing you didn't affect me that much. Do you know the kind of feeling that you wanted someone so badly but never really had the chance to say it? I am kind of used to rejection by now—not that it doesn't hurt anymore, it does. It gets more disappointing each passing second, but loses the element of surprise as it goes by. It was the kind of exact feeling with missing you. It just was kind of...numb. Empty. Null. Nothing hurt, nothing felt like burst of excitement or longing to see you (because we all know it was kind of impossible for an impromptu meeting, right?).

On the harder days though, I really had deep thought whether to just go straight ahead into your arms, screaming it out loud because it was impossible to do it alone or do I really have to swallow the feeling down, end this stupid cycle. Just you know, gone with the wind, in the literal meaning of gone. Missing.

It was really hard to describe what I have been feeling with you. Since you know, I had never really this invested to someone other than my family. Telling you "I missed you" would not quite cut it to the chase. It was so much more complicated than just missing you. It was like loving the first burst of fire, without really minding the burn at the end. Man, the burn hurt like a bitch.

If you were to tell me that this feeling was invalid. Good God, don't just hand me the sword. Cut me to pieces. Murder me all at once. And then burn me with the last fuel of what we had once. You were mean to hurt me one way or another. I'd let it fucking hurt for once, fucking burned, so that I was totally gone. A nothingness.

You mentioned about marriage just then. Something about the way you elaborated your future—the way your future had no correlation with my presence—it stung. I shouldn't have concerned actually, really. I should've closed any hearing on your vision of your future—it was your business for God's sake, why do I have to be so fucking irritated? But it hurt, it stung, it fucking burned everywhere to the point that the pan of mozzarella pizza in front of us was a total waste. Good God, Claire, the mozzarella were dripping, melted, fresh from the oven. What's hotter than that? Oh, yes, the burn!

A marriage—with nothing of my name of sorts—should not really be my concern. We never put a label to what we were. Even if we did, it would still be nothing of my concern if I was never on your lifetime plan. We all do have choices, who we're going to walk this life with. And if one day you were one to walk next to someone else, some other lucky lady; the choice is all yours, supposedly. This is what I hated the most; the fact that I was awfully irritated by a talk of marriage. I was not anyone possessive over another human being, but the thought of you weren't the one whom I faced at the end of the altar totally screwed my whole mood up.

I hated a lot of things about myself, like truly hated, but this one couldn't beat the hatred I had for some features I had within me; like the way I missed you when you were just across from me, sitting in your glory, munching on your pizza. You honestly looked just like you but somehow you didn't feel like you, or you didn't feel like the kind of you I had pictured on my mind—my idea of who you are. It's pathetic to be honest. What even more pathetic is the way I stared into your soul through the same pair of brown eyes to find the hurt I felt, didn't bother you in the slightest, yet I still find a way to miss you.

but, yeah, I missed you nevertheless.