It’s when at night, as they say, wherein you will inevitably drown yourself with all these thoughts and memories you’ve been keeping your whole life as you lay in your bed. At the same time, it would give you this weird muse to write something–anything and you’ll have no other choice but to put these thoughts into paper and immortalize it with your pen.
This is for you.
Honestly, I don’t know why I’m writing to you right now. It’s actually quite a desperate move for me to do since I don’t normally put this much effort to someone—or anyone, really, especially when I know that they don’t give a single fuck about me right now. For all I know, you’re not even thinking of me—I shouldn’t too. They say that’s how pride works; that no matter how much you want to fix things back to the way it used to be, pride will tell you that you shouldn’t be the first to drop to your knees and put all these pieces back together with shaky hands.
But tonight, it feels different—like as if my entire body wants to deceive what my mind tells me what not to do. It tells me that I should I drop whatever I’m doing and compose this letter I’m writing because I’am thinking of you and I think I’m driving myself insane for canning these feelings I need to set free.
Everything sounds too silly, and I know later on, I’ll regret doing this. I’ll regret sending this to you, because a part of me thinks you’ll laugh this off and think that I’m not too serious. Another part of me says that you’ll simply ignore me and unfriend me in Facebook for the second time while you’re at it.
Please don’t say that I’m overly pessimistic because from what I’ve seen and felt for the past weeks, shadowing myself over grief and quipping a fake smile are the only options I’m left with. It’s either that, or I’ll wear my darkest robes and play the evil role in this sickening fairytale of yours.
They [my friends] told me that I shouldn’t bother you anymore, simply because it would only inflict me more pain. What they don’t understand, however, is that I’m feeling the exact same “pain” they’re saying whenever I think of you and how our friendship has come to an end like this. (wag mo na isipin yung feelings, kahit yung friendship nalang) It’s deeply saddening to see that one person who used to bring joy to your life, is now just a memory that I can only relieve in my head.
After our talk in the canteen, I really thought we’d become friends again. Now, I’m just laughing to myself because once again, I believed in another lie. I realized that we can’t stay friends, due to some odd reasons we’ll never understand.
I hope you’re happy, though. I hope she’s giving justice to the efforts that you do, and I know I might sound a bit too bitter–because I actually am, thank you for asking—I just wanted to tell you that I am not in the least bit of feeling apologetic for the things I’ve done to her. Parang masama lang? hahaha no, not really.
Don’t worry, I have no plans in confronting her whatsoever because I know that I’m in no place to do so. She’s not my concern, and I shouldn’t of her’s too.
But remember this: you’ve gambled basically your life and your friends for her. Not to mention that you dropped my feelings like an unwanted sack of garbage. Heck.
She better be worth it.
Or else, I will fucking—I swear to god—take my knife and slit her throat. I’m not kidding.
Ending this letter, I just wanted to say thank you.
Thank you, because you’ve managed to make my third year in college a bit interesting. Thank you because you’ve made me smile, even if most of the thing you said were probably lies and pa-bola.
Thank you for accompanying me in Cash and Carry. It was the best memory I had with you and I don’t mind repeating the same scenes over and over in my head.
Thank you because if it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t be this close to some of your friends. I must say, you really do have friends who are meant for keeping. It’s a shame you’ve taken some of them for granted.
But most of all,
Thank you for allowing me to feel pain. It made me realize that I’m actually human and not an asexual plant; that I have a human heart, capable of loving and though science tells us that it’s just another organ composed of muscles, it’s actually more fragile than the thinnest glass ever produced by man. Oh well, that’s how life goes—we’ll all get to experience this one way or the other right?
You’re just another phase I need to get over, it sucks and I swear I could write another letter saying how much of a BS you are for letting me believe that the feelings were mutual, but whatever. I’m done for tonight.
No, I’m not mad. You’ll know when I’m mad (a clue would be me dismembering people or screaming at the top of my lungs.)
I’m sorry if I sound overly dramatic, but that’s the only thing I’m sorry for. Nothing more, nothing less.