hiraeth. //

the catalyst

My first heartbreak came in the form of an email.

Before that, I sat anxiously on my bed, wondering how you'd taken the confession I just did through a song with a series of photos trying to form movement–trying to tell a story.

I knew it was going to be rejection–what else would it be–but I worried about how you'd do it. How hard you'll slap the truth on my face so that it lingers even after eternity.

Then my phone dinged, and it was an email. The subject was 'Please' and it didn't really help. Please... what? Leave me alone? Don't talk to me anymore? Die?

With shaky hands, and possibly a heart just waiting for the cue to officially smash into pieces, I tapped on it and read.

You still wanted to be my friend.

You said that, and then the way you told me the truth wasn't so much as a slap of eternal remembering–more like a slight pat on the face; a slight brush; a caress.

Still, after I read it, I cried.

I cried, the way a genius would when his work gets a C; the way a person striving to be remembered would when he first learns the concept of oblivion.

I saw it coming. And when it did come, it was gentle, everything about it, and I sure as hell know that a lot of people experienced worse out there.

But it still hit me like a bullet train, still caught me off guard, still found a crevice to my carefully crafted wall.

And it hurt me.

It hurt me, and the pain was annoyingly distinct. It was as if it screamed, "Hey, motherfucker, I'm here! Acknowledge me!"

It demanded to be felt, as one book said.

But I can't be like this.

So I wiped my tears and typed a light reply, a suggestion that I was okay and there was nothing for you to be worried about. When it got through, I turned off my phone and went to bed, snuggling under the covers–it was a cold evening.

And then I cried again.