I woke up feeling sorry.
I knew that once the storm that were my emotions halted to a stop, what would be left is destruction - so I woke up early to pick up the pieces I could find in order to carefully glue them back together.
Metaphors aside, I wanted to apologize.
I woke up with a headache and puffy eyes, like a crybaby with an alcohol problem. However, my motive was clear. I wanted to cook breakfast for her before she wakes up, not only to say sorry, but also to express my deep gratitude for her. Putting up with my bad attitude is a feat most people cannot deal with.
While cooking, I busied myself over thinking about the words I have to say to her in order for me to explain my part carefully without revealing most of my parental issues. I mulled over which parts I should say and which parts I shouldn’t.
Should I tell her that I long for parents who care enough for me to actually stay with me? Should I tell her that I worried about my anger management issues and I need somewhere to vent?
As my thoughts lengthened and my words corroborated, I realized how blurry the lines between us are. In a span of four of five days she has seen me in a rollercoaster of emotions – happy, sad, angry, agitated. That’s probably more than what other people have seen from me despite knowing me for a comparatively longer time.
And this comfort I feel whenever she’s around, it was odd.
Can comfort ever equate to love? I was inexperienced and confused, but I knew for a fact that I see her as someone more than a friend.
I hummed melancholically as I was finishing up. It wasn’t raining outside, but the sky was dark and gloomy, and sad songs just seemed fitting when it comes to days like these.
After setting up the food in a tray, I walked up slowly and quietly towards where she stayed, the guestroom that was situated beside mine.
I knocked on her door softly, a few light taps against the wood. There was no answer. I knocked again, a little harder this time. Still no answer. I put my ear against the door to listen to shuffling or any sign of movement but there just didn’t seem to be any. I was curious, but not curious enough to forcibly open the door. Maybe, just maybe, she was deep into slumber and would wake up any time soon.
I made my way back into the kitchen and set down the tray with food and covered it. For a few excruciatingly long set of minutes, I plopped myself down on the sofa and senselessly watched a documentary without much focus.
I impatiently tapped my feet against the tiled floor and I kept on staring at the seconds-hand moving around the clock. Just a minute more, I told myself. Just a minute more and I will knock again, and if she still won’t answer, I’ll ready the spare key that I have so that I could open her room and see if something was wrong.
The minute passed and I tried to calm myself as I retraced the steps I took.
I knocked more forcibly this time, even jiggling the knob just to check if it was locked. It was all to no avail – so I took out the keys and opened the door.
All I saw was an empty room.
The bed was made, no sign of a visitor in any corner of the room. Her hard-to-miss bag was not around, and no clothes were hung on the closet.
She left.
Occupied with a whiplash of emotions, all I was able to do was lay down on the bed and take in the only traces of her left - her scent.
I made my way to the bedside table, where the only thing different was a piece of paper on it.
I opened it and started to read.
"Dear Donny,
I probably asked too much from you. I apologize, because in the midst of my problems, I forgot you struggle with yours too.
Thank you for letting me into your house and into your life, as well, I guess. I owe you a lot, and I intend to repay you if ever we see each other again. Bless you, because I know your heart is weary right now.
This is farewell.
Yours,
Sharlene"
