[ENTRY 80..✍️]
Two years. It took me almost two years to have opened my eyes to the ugly truth. Once or twice I'd seen it unfold before my very eyes even right from the beginning, before the godforsaken illusion shrouded a good part of my rationality, and a vivid recollection of my remarking this truth still reminded me from time to time when I'd find myself sinking deeper into my ideals. And yet what? Somehow, despite this preserved knowledge that could've saved me so much time from dwelling into the possibilities, which, in all honesty, bear more uncertainties than assurances of what I hoped would bechance; so much time to have bettered myself when it comes to matters of real importance: still, my girlish fancies managed to convince my idiocy that with patience, anything, indeed, can happen. And so my stagnation stretched and my lackadaisical arse hoped for some more. Besides, change is the only constant in this world. Surely... he would?
Two years. By Jove, I have played a fool for such a long time yet again, have I not? Oh, by all means, pray don't think of me the victim in this narrative for I am anything but. I wore total awareness of my own stupidity like I would a man's chemise stained with his ever so intoxicating cologne after a forbidden intercourse; and thus take full responsibility for the distress I was recently experiencing. No matter, I am free at last. Free from this imprisonment my own foolishness engineered. There was a time, I believe, when I couldn't imagine being able to get out at all—mostly because I didn't want to, partially because it fed the emptiness that resides within me; an essential substance to keep my sanity, and lastly because the cave I created served as one of the many escapes to where I'd take refuge when reality doesn't agree with my mood. My, but it was a good cave! Full of promises and wishful thinking. So I wrapped myself with silly daydreams and fantasies that turned into the most hideous form of delusion. But I have awoken now, at last, slapped by the truth I disregarded all these years. No, it wasn't the same reminder that occasionally came upon me when I needed remembering, for this time, that truth came from the source itself in the freshest shape of reality. The very subject of my interest. The muse of my obsession. The center of my monomania.
Chace.
A man who fears not shredding his masculine facade and displaying unto you his weakest form, vulnerability, and tears of moroseness—injects honour and flattery upon a woman's person, most especially when this is not his usual nature. And I have been this woman in the ample part of January. My care for this man is genuine, I assure you, for he is both a friend and a lover I longed to have, so I listened to his sorrows with earnest intentions and swallowed the recurring pain caused by the mention of his immeasurable devotion for a former inamorata. Regrets for the things he didn't do and should've done to keep his sweetheart struck me with utmost jealousy, but the pretension of my being fine—along with my authentic sympathy—ingrained the mask that hid the despondence his own had caused me. At his rigid resolution to change even with the involvement of things he loathes doing, my heart shattered, for this presentation proved how great his love is for the other. In my mind, I died to say, "You need not change anything, my love. You are already great as you are. To me, you are perfect." My heart crushed when he lamented at the thought that no girl would ever love him the way his last ever did. Oh, but this man needed a good smack on the head to see me right there, did he not! He mourned for the past when she loved him so much, needed him tenderly, wanted him immensely, and I was there dying to tell him: "My dearest, I could love you more than that, sincerely."
The saddest part of this all is that, had I been in Paris that year, it would've been me… I would've been the one he'd be writing poems now. He doesn't write nor is he at all a poetic person but the bitter gall that resulted from his fervent affection somewhat created another person in the tenor of his existence. He used to scoff and sneer at cringy romance but he's almost turning into Shakespeare now. Had distance hadn't played the main antagonist in our story, I would've been the subject of his feelings and thoughts in his newly bought blue journal. I would've been the reason he is so destroyed. The poison that is the cure.
I listened and listened, and listened… My, but his heartache was only interesting at first! When in the devil's name did this fine gent get so needy and talkative? In the suffocation of repetitive whinings and words of dejection from the same person every goddamn day, I sought solace in the voice of a fellow Frenchman, whose melodious and soothing sound served as a fresh air in contrast to the depression the other carries: my language partner, Mathieu. We laughed and bantered and poked fun at each other and acted like children, for with a language barrier that blocks another level of connection, we couldn't breach the walls towards deeper conversations. Chace knows of this for I have imparted this information to him, and blame it on jealousy if he must, but for a man who admitted having low self-esteem issues, he is an arrogant bastard who thinks himself superior to others. He looked down on Mathieu and made prejudiced comments about what the man does for a living, and when boldly rebuked he was being a massive douche upon my candid display of ill-humour, he reasoned it was because he was jealous. Right. Because the man has seen me naked plenty of times and he hasn't. Right. That was exactly it. I'd venture to add he was disguising his envy towards Mathieu's Adonis physique by attacking the guy's social status because if there was one thing he takes great pride in, it's his educational level and success. And if there was one thing he's insecure about, it's his body. He scorned the kind of conversation Mathieu could provide for me, but the poor man is still learning English… Chace knows I like intellectual and deep conversations so he probably thinks I prefer him droning on and on about godforsaken feelings, romance, marriage, soulmates, love; when in actuality, this bundle of romantic hopes and despair now reeks of hackneyed contents that suffocate me. I care about him, I truly do, but for the love of Jupiter, a girl gets tired, too! Imagine having to listen to someone saying the same amourous crap every bloody day. And then I got to witness this side of him again which I hadn't seen since the first lockdown when we were still trying to get to know each other. I thought with time, this part of him would wither away, and that should the odds be ever in my favour; that is, I end up living my imaginations; he'd accept me wholly because his love for me surpasses all kinds of prejudices and ideals. Yes, you've heard of this very nonsense from the start of this entry: my so-called girlish fancies.
He says he is an open book to me and assumes I, too, to him, and I could only smile silently which must have only appeared an affirmation to his delusion. "Plot twist: I'm a library," I stated. Smart as he claims he is, he didn't catch the depth of that metaphor. Or maybe he just didn't care. I am in no way an open book to him because I know what kind of a person he is. Though kindness and modesty occupy the larger part of his whole being, he has a corner that is proud, condescending, and looks down on people he estimates aren't in the same league as him. And I don't stand in the same radar as him, so how am I supposed to be comfortable sharing my personal troubles to the man I've witnessed belittling others who I deem are even above me? Sad it is to say, that after two years, though he's trying to be a better man and is slowly changing to be so; even when this determination is driven by the love for another: unfortunately, the one thing I wanted him to change since two years ago retains up to this day. I admit, when carried by emotions, sometimes I tend to forget this. You can see it in the evidence above when I thought him perfect. At some point in my life, I actually thought he was my soulmate. And I wasn't one who believed in that rubbish. But damn, he truly is almost perfect. To me, at least. Save for one thing.. Just one.
Despite his claims before that if he were to spend the next 10 years with someone, it would be me, "no questions asked"; it's clear to me now that I'll never be the girl he wants. At least, not anymore. The damsel who recently broke his heart, who apparently is his first love, has set another standard of what happiness and a perfect life is to him, and its height is something my companion could never surmount to no longer. And because I have in me a fault that is a flaw to his desires, then him finding this a flaw made a fault in him, too, which poses complications to the design of my own desires. To say it simply: he's not what I want because he doesn't want me. At least, in a long term sense. I've held onto my ideals and delusions for some time now, that someday, by some funny turn of event, he and I would end up together, and though it isn't entirely impossible, it's time I stop waiting now.
Trust me, Chace is not a bad person. He is one of a kind, one of the nice guys. He acknowledged the arsehole that he was acting concerning the malicious comments he dropped about my language partner and regretted it dreadfully when I departed upset. He gave apologies and beseeched my forgiveness, which, to my amusement, stretched on for quite some time, because, you see, it was at this point I finally opened my eyes, and the realisation overwhelmed me that it rendered me somewhat listless. That is to say, my appetite to speak with him suddenly went limp.
The good thing about this heartbreak he's experiencing is that, I could call him stupid and pathetic because when a person is in love, those are exactly the adjectives best to describe them. And I've had my fair share of this on account of his own happiness with someone else and now that it's his turn, there's absolutely pleasure in calling Mr. Oh I'm So Successful "pathetic" because he really was. When it comes to stalking, he is worse than I am. You have no idea. And I once thought so highly of this "too cool to care" guy. Tss. I still think highly of him but I've also seen him at his lowest point so I know his weakness now. He literally showed me his soul so I could do some serious damage to him at last. I jest. It warms my heart, to be sure. He trusts me so much and says he's never had conversations with anyone as we have.
He's been telling me "I love you" almost everytime we say goodbye and it's like it's become our routine now. I think we've even exchanged more "I love yous" than he ever did with his former amore. He told me the girl never said those words to him. This is what I was talking about western dating. It's confusing as hell! How could one be in a serious romantic relationship with someone for more than a year and never saying "I love you"? He said the girl showed it more than he ever did. Bah. Imagine having sex with someone you love without telling each other "I love you" before climax. But it's the best part! You look them in the eyes—it's at this point the connection is at its peak—and then you whisper those magical three words, or moan it in their ears… Ah. He hasn't yet experienced the highest art of intimacy.
I talked about my lake of affection for him a few posts ago and it's certain to me now that the romantic part—which filled most of the basin, is slowly being dissolved by a much stronger force. I'm also certain there are still pebbles left he unknowingly carries in his hand to once again stir my feelings but I am confident to say they've reduced into a size now close to dust. He is and will always be special to me, the kind I treasure oh so dearly, and as to not lose him, this leveled up friendship will serve as the lock to keep our precious bond and relationship secured for eternity.
It's just as he said to me the second time we met two years ago: "I'll never forget you. We are linked now." At first, those words didn't mean anything at all. He just wanted to creep me out. Who knew it would hold so much truth later on.. Because to be honest? Ever since we met, I guess we have always been connected.
By this point of my life, I bid adieu to my foolish dreams, which in all honesty, served more as an entertainment to my hollowness and lethargic life than it ever was a strong desire to be considered seriously. My own mind struck in me a thorn to occupy my empty heart, and now with my own hand, I plucked it out to give space for a new dart. Today, I am free, light-hearted, and in a fresh mood to entertain novelties in the finest shapes of muscles and romantic adventures.
Goodbye, my almost lover.