Singing the Last Song, a romance fiction

Singing the Last Song

Something we both know: You used to be here all the time.

In our midget of a school. In our market of classes. In our rotting school canteen. On our school's football field.

In your car, where you'd fetch me everywhere, whenever I want. In your room, where we'd be sprawled on your carpeted floor, writing, reading, singing, hyperventilating. In your toilet, where you'd smoke and I'd watch, and we'd grin childishly to ourselves, because your mama would never know (or so we assumed).

In my house, where you've picked to be your second home. In my kitchen, where the food would mysteriously vanish after you leave. In my room, where you took away my very first kiss. On my bed, where you'd sleep like a pig, beneath the pink comforter.

You were a companion. A friend. An almost-lover.

But when present tense morphs into a past tense situation, we both understand what went wrong.

Yet no one utters a word.

This is a memory.

This is our routine: How we used to chatter over the phone for hours on end at night, talking about nothing, anything, and everything.

And when it's time to hang up and hit the sacks, we'd end up playing the farewell game, where you'd say 'bye', and I'd say the same, and we'd wait for a second, only to realize no one's hanging up.

It delays our much needed beauty rest, but I didn't mind. I never did. Because it meant more time spent with you.

What's the flaw in that?

"Well, what are you waiting for?" You'd ask, laughing over the phone. Your words would come out in a long and lazy drawl, and I'd imagine you rubbing your eye, a gesture you always do when you're sleepy. "Hang up the phone, silly."

"But I'm waiting for you to hang up", I'd grumble defiantly, crossing my arms over my chest. "Bye doofus, now hang up."

"Fine." You'd cluck your tongue once. "Fine, alright, bye."

We'd remain silent, counting.

One.

Two.

Two and a half.

"Damn it, you were supposed to hang up!"

"You were supposed to hang up!"

"Fine!"

"Screw you, woman. Bye."

But I would still be able to hear you breathing.

"Oh, of course. I'm sure the line is dead right now." I'd mutter sarcastically, my lips twitching. And then, I'd say one more good bye, and we'd wait for a while more, and we'd realize no one was hanging up any time soon; not till the other gives up, first.

If no one gave up, this would never end.

And right now, I'm too tired to continue the game.

Which is the exact reason for me sitting here, typing words that might or might not mean a thing to you.

We've been hanging on the phone for way too long; There were too many delays that kept me waiting, dangling on to a thread I had no faith in.

And I guess that's just not what I desire for. Not when it comes to us.

To you; you know who you are.

This is our last goodbye.

Delay #1: You found me.

It's sad to know that we're not one of those stereotypical pairs we see on cheesy films, where the guy's a jock and the girl's a loner nobody wants, until the jock comes along.

You were just the guy. And I was just the girl.

We just sort of clicked.

Over an argument at the place I worked at.

By the way, before I forget, damn you.

You wanted a large green tea frappuccino. Cool. I got it. All you had to do was pay the bill, sit down at some corner preferably where I wouldn't be able to see you (and consequently, getting the urge to suffocate you to death), and wait till I serve your orders.

But no, you just had to make a big deal out of it when I gave you your change which consisted of a slightly folded and dirt-smudged ten dollar bill.

And so maybe I was slightly grumpy when I took your orders. And maybe I slammed the cashier drawer a little bit too hardly. And well, maybe I did sort of give you the look when you gave me a hundred dollar bill, way too big for a single nine-ninety frappuccino.

In my rightful defense, though, ever heard of this little thing called Pre-Menstrual Syndrome?

"I demand to see your manager immediately." You huffed, clearly displeased.

I rolled my eyes, clear not giving a damn.

"You're looking at her." I responded, fibbing smoothly, credits to all those fluffs I've watched. I puffed out my chest a little, trying to look indignant. I think I looked like a kid trying to grow a moustache and be a man. "I'm the manager."

Your mouth went ajar and you stared at me with wide-eyed disbelief.

"If you think I'm stupid and obnoxious, think again." You growled after a while, glaring me down. "This place is supposed to be all about good customer service."

"Indeed."

"But I'm not getting any."

"The thing is," I paused, deliberately dragged on each and every single syllable, just to piss you off. I leaned in a little closer over the counter top and looked at you seriously, "We provide services for good customers. Good customer service, see? You're a good customer, you get good service. You're an asshole, you get sucky service. It's all in the words. This is what you get in the real world, honey."

Your face reddened in anger. A blissful moment.

"This is ridiculous!" You shouted, slamming the table. All the other customers turned to see what the fuss what about. We had a pretty large group of audience, and I was starting to worry. What if I lose my job? Shit I'd better not lose my job. "Where's whoever that's bigger than the manager? I demand to see him now!"

"'If you think I'm stupid and obnoxious, think again.'" I mocked incessantly, relishing the moment and the way I could see your Adam's apple bobbing up and down, up and down.

"Sorry," You said. Or at least, I thought you said. Before I realized that your lips weren't moving, and the voice sounded a lot like a woman's. I blanched and spun around in slow motion, wishing I could just dig into a hole and die at that exact moment. The manager smiled sweetly at you and explained, "Our staffs are usually more polite, and I'm sure there's a reason behind all these. I hope you understand."

"Oh, of course I understand." You responded, and I found myself wanting to kill you. The manager speaks and everything is alright? What the hell? "Thanks."

"Sure thing." The manager turned around and stared at me, long and hard. "You're fired."

And then you burst out laughing.

That was when I realized I hated you, and that was when we started chasing each other around the coffee shop, long enough until the authorities were called in to haul the both of us out.

And then you decided to play nice and introduced yourself to me.

Which led to everything else.

Funny as it seems, even on that day itself I found myself thinking.

For a moment there I thought we could make it big.

I could even see it on the screen. An argument, leading to a well-blossomed friendship. And eventually the girl falls for the guy, only to realize that he had been pining after her since the first day they met.

"You know," I'd tell our kids in the future, "Mama and Papa knew each other over caffeine."

And they would giggle and be amazed by our love, the strong bond that holds us together, now and forever.

The greatest romance of all time, how awesome would that be?

Delay #2: I found you.

The whole situation on that day itself could be summed up in a mere few sentences.

I was in class, doing my job as an obedient student and taking down notes as the teacher droned on about whatever.

A knock on the door, a new student, a request, my name was appointed.

I walked to the principal's office, fully expecting a female student (or something of that sort). Our eyes met, and I froze.

"Please don't tell me you're the new student." I managed to choke out, close to hyperventilation. You grinned, and I knew my suspicions were proven to be true.

You were the new kid in town people were talking about.

I was one of the first few to have the privilege to have met you, although I must say, I didn't know what the honour was all about. We ended up in a major quarrel at a coffee shop, and we even managed to play chase around the place. Yeah. Splendid.

And now we were stuck together. Until the end of high school.

I didn't even bother asking if this was a dream come true.

Plus, the fact that I rhyme when I talk about this makes me want to strangle you.

Delay #3: You were like a super glue; I was glued to you.

People were supposed to grow apart once they find other friends.

But for whatever reason, you stuck.

Before classes, you'd find me by my locker and walk me to my class (okay so we had the same classes, but who's looking at the plain facts here?).

During classes, especially when you sit behind me, you'd make sure that your paper would never fail to reach my head. My belief was that you wanted me to get a concussion and consecutively, die. But apparently you just wanted to get me into detention so that I could accompany you for two hours which you managed to find yourself in, because you were late for one of the classes where the teacher emphasized on punctuality.

During lunch, you'd pile all the grossest food and laugh about it when you dump them right in front of me. You'd make ugly faces and I'd end up doubling over with crazy shits and giggles. People would look at us as though we needed rehab.

I thought all our contact would stop there, but no.

You blackmailed me into watching you audition for a place in the school's football team, so needless to say, I went. You got in the team, and we were happy.

And then you invited me over to your place, and I realized that you played the guitar. I told you that I played the piano, and you showed me the way to your dusty keyboard. We'd strike a chord and come up with a random melody, and soon enough we were composing songs together, where I'd sing and you'd play.

Soon enough, you found your way to my place – your heaven when all the food in your house have expired, or when you can't sleep at night and have no where to go.

Read whatever I wrote, again and again.

Seriously. If we never became best friends, something must have went seriously wrong with our brain.

I never really liked all the football matches you made me attend, though.

I only liked you.

Delay #4: You failed history; I failed for you.

Another chance to rub it in: You suck at history.

No, really. You have no idea how much I felt like laughing the moment you let me see your results (a whopping 3.5 %). Which later on developed into some kind of hatred when you told me that madam asked me to tutor you.

So we started with the tutoring. You were never really bothered by my reluctance; the first few times when I refused to let you in my house, you found your way through the window to my room (not forgetting to throw a few rocks and stones to scratch my glass pane, then presenting me with a flower to assure me that it wasn't you). I gave in eventually, and our short half an hour tutoring turned into longer two hours (sometimes six) of me trying to crush useful information into that thick skull of yours.

And every time right after our session, I'd lie on my bed, exhausted, before realizing that I had a piano exam coming up, and I've used up my practicing hours to make you understand.

But I never got up practicing; my mind drifted me off to sleep at the first plausible moment.

This lasted for a month: Our daily meetings; the never-ending tutorials; me falling a little deeper each time you crack some lame joke or do something so stupid it's adorable; and the poor, neglected piano pieces.

When the monthly assessment came, you were bloody confident that you'd score, and I was shit worried that you'd fail another time. I wished you luck before we both entered the classroom and took our papers, and when we came out, you were smiling.

A week later, during class, madam told everyone about this one student who excelled in this particular paper, jumping from an 'E' to an awesome 'A-'.

I clapped the hardest when your name was called.

You must have been really happy. Everything must have paid off for you.

I'm glad.

Oh, by the way.

Another thing I never told you: I just received my piano examination's result.

I failed my Grade 8.

Delay #5: She doesn't get your humor like I do.

Just when I thought things were going alright for us, you came up to my locker one Monday and told me you couldn't walk me home.

I asked why; you ducked your head; I understood.

You were genuinely excited about this, I could tell, so I didn't have the heart to burst your bubble. You went ahead with the date, and she was all you could talk about for the next three months.

Her full lips, her long eyelashes, her striking blue eyes, her killer figure, her wonderful results, her cheerleading squad, her this, her that, her this, her that.

But baby, she doesn't understand you. Not like I do.

And when she left you, I was the first person you came to, because I was one of the very few who could make you smile, when you know you're about to cry.

You said you didn't know what went wrong, you thought you made her happy. And depression turned you into a sadist, which was what made my heart ache the most.

That was the one night I learnt the most about you, and nothing could ever be the same ever since.

All your past relations. Your parents, who're too damned busy with work to give you anything but all the money in the world. Your brother, the only one, who got killed in a car accident – and your last words to him were 'Fuck you; Go to hell, sucker.'. All the girls you've dated, thinking that they genuinely liked you, before you realized that they were in for the money. Your horrible results. Your inability to sleep in the dark because the gloom would haunt you. Your hatred for all this little problems that would never cease to taunt you. Your life.

"See that light there?" I asked after a long, quiet moment, when your tears (and mine) have dried up, and it just couldn't come anymore. My stubby finger pointed up at the fluorescent tube light my mum added above my study table.

You nodded, and I guessed you didn't know where this was going. Your eyes were swollen, and I half-wondered if you were even paying attention, but I was determined to tell you what mama told me when I was a kid.

"Good. Stare at it. Focus your eyes on it like nobody's business." You groaned, but did as you were told, turning your gaze onto the glaring white light. I looked, too, to prove that you weren't alone in this. After a moment or two, we looked away, our eyes squeezed shut. I smiled, a smile that was almost too hyper. "What do you see now?"

We blinked.

Once.

Twice.

Lines blurred my vision. Coloured lines.

No. Rainbow-coloured lines.

You wrinkled your nose and I knew you saw the same. I grinned.

"I've always had this little thought: See, the white, glaring light is an obstacle. Things that block you from getting what you want. But once you see past the light, you'd see the rainbow..." I sighed wistfully, my mind wandering off to space. "And then... And then you'd be happy."

You looked at me for a very long time, and I wondered if I said anything wrong. Your stare was hard and piercing, but I willed myself not to look away.

And then you crushed me in your arms; Before I knew it, we both cried again, and rocked ourselves in a slow momentum, hoping that sleep will embrace us together.

I fell asleep before you, but not before I felt something else.

A pressed kiss onto my forehead, when you thought I had already gave way to slumber.

Delay #6: A reminder that I'm a woman.

This was something that happened on a regular basis, but it seemed fitting to be written here.

You don't have any female siblings in the family, and for most of the time, you were glad with that arrangement ("Although," you said one time, "It would be pretty tight to have a sizzling hot older sister washing my body for me…").

But that also meant that you wouldn't know what to do when the time of the month comes.

Before my womanly red came, I started feeling cranky, and you started to feel a little scared for yourself, especially whenever I launch myself at you for no particularly good reason (Like when you took one of my fries when you thought I wasn't looking). But you did nothing to defend yourself, especially after you found out about the reason (a product of my brainless yelling) behind the sudden grouchiness.

On the first day itself, my stomach cramped so bad I couldn't even get out of bed, and so I missed my classes.

At 2.30 p.m., when I was half asleep, mum led you up into my bedroom, and the moment the door swung open, I caught a whiff of something that smelt like… something.

"Hey," You greeted, your voice filled with concern, and you held a thermos out, looking awkward. "For you."

I patted the spot beside me on my queen-sized bed, and you sat down as you were told, unpacking the things you brought.

"Try it," You muttered quietly, taking out what seemed like chicken soup to me. "I don't really know what girls usually drink what they get that… you know; but I know warm stuff helps."

"Thanks," I blew lightly on the soup before I took a spoonful, swallowing slowly and feeling suddenly grateful for the warm feeling in my tummy. There was only one place in town where you don't get canned chicken soup. I looked at you, curious. "You got this from that pizza shop down the street, didn't you?"

You raised an eyebrow. "I made it myself."

I choked, then looked at the time. "But its 2.35, and school lets out at 2.10. It's not possible."

"Who said I went for classes?" You challenged me, your lips curving upwards. Just a little.

And I wanted to hit you with a club. Or a big stone. Or anything that could ensure that you stop breathing. I wanted to yell at you for using me as a reason to stay at home (and okay, make me heavenly soup.). But I couldn't, because that stupid spasm of pain hit me again, and I winced.

"Are you okay?" You asked, sounding genuinely worried. I shook my head, indicating a no, and you fidgeted, not knowing what to do. I waited for the pain to go away, but it stayed. I looked at you, helpless.

"I hate men." I growled through gritted teeth, before pressing on my stomach as the cramp hit me again.

Suddenly you reached out and pulled me close, adjusting your position so that we were both lying sideways, your large, warm palms on my stomach.

"What if I do this for you?" You rubbed your palm lightly on my tummy, and I felt comforted, somewhat. I felt your breath tickling my ear; it drove me crazy. Your voice was quiet, but so was the room. "Would you still hate men if I did this?"

I mulled over that question, inwardly savoring the pleasing sensation you gave me. I felt better already.

"Just don't leave right now." I told you, and you listened.

Delay #7: I started wishing a lot.

People started to talk about us.

In the hallways, the girls would whisper, whether enviously, curiously, or bitchily, I could never tell.

But rumours were flying everywhere.

We've been dating since we were six.

We were found smooching in the car at the school parking lot at the wee hours in the morning.

We made out in the middle of the dance floor in some random bar.

I only liked you because you were stupid and that made me look smarter.

You only went for me so you could get all the answers during exam.

We had sex in the courtyard and got caught, your hands on my boobs.

You impregnated me and apparently, according to various sources, cheated on me right after.

We already have two kids, boys, named Marko and Jacob – Of which, one of them developed HIV. At the age of two.

I was so disturbed by the impossibilities that I completely neglected my studies and, as an end result (stupid geometry paper), got grounded by my awesome parents.

Needless to say, I was devastated.

But you told me things would be okay.

And I believed you. Of course I would.

"Why should we bother about what the others think?" You asked over lunch that day, after I confronted you over this matter. "I only care about your point of view. End of story."

My point of view? I want us together. I want you to love me. I want us together. I want to have your babies (none with HIV, obviously). I want us together. I want to see you look at me the way you look at all the other 'her's, and not just like one of the guys. I want us together.

Bottom line is, I want us together.

Your point of view on my point of view? I want us to be friends, nothing more, nothing less.

One defeated sigh; One truthful word.

Misconception.

Delay #8: We argued.

Or rather, I yelled at you.

And I hated every moment, because us not talking was just a major torment and heartache; nothing more.

We were supposed to be going home together; You were supposed to give me a ride, because I gave you the permission to flaunt your driving skills. And you promised I'd be the first one you drive around.

So I waited. Outside the school, in the parking lot. Alone. It was raining cats and dogs.

I shivered and tied my trench coat a little tighter to my body and blew hot air into my hands to feel better, but to no avail.

One by one, the cars exited the parking lot, and I found myself looking for a white coloured car, just like the one you described to me. I found a few, but none of them were yours. So I waited again, patiently, for the time to pass and for you to come around.

You never did; I waited for two whole hours, until I was the only one left.

"Where are you?" I demanded over the phone the moment you picked up, but the reception was bad. And it sounded very noisy on your end. You were out. "You were supposed to pick me up, you dimwit!"

"Hey, I'm sorry, but I can't hear you!" You shouted, and I heard laughter around you. I was angered. The line was silent before you shouted again. "You there? Where are you?"

"You were supposed to pick me up, you bastard. But apparently I'm not worth remembering, and now you're out having fun with your friends. Well, fuck you. I'm walking home." Normally I'd grimace at my vulgarism, but I couldn't care less at that moment. I wanted to hurt you, which was my whole intention. I pressed the red button to end our conversation.

Within five seconds my phone started ringing, and it took me a moment of hesitation before I decided to pick it up.

"Hey, I'm sorry, I-"

Only to deliberately hang up on you again.

And again.

When you called the fifth time I decided to play nice, but apparently, you didn't get the memo.

"Shit, woman. Not every fucking thing is about you, you know? Could you be more considerate for a moment and think about me? Fine. I'm sorry. I made a mistake. It slipped my mind. I'll make it up to you, but damn! I have other friends, too, you know. I don't have to spend every single second of my life with you!"

I got stunned into silence, not quite sure what to say.

"Okay." I managed to bite out before I kept the phone hastily in my bag and held my tears in.

Tears drenched my pillow that night, and I realized that to a certain extent, your words were true.

I shouldn't cling on to you.

Maybe I wouldn't, I thought to myself, trying my best to be determined and toughen up.

I would've been strong, you know. But then a beep on my cell changed everything.

"Forgive me for my harshness. I didn't know what to think. I said awful stuff, and I'm aware of that. Please don't be angry and reply me, so I know you're alright."

My finger lingered on the reply button for a second, before resentment got the best of me, and I tossed the phone aside.

It beeped again.

"You mean a lot to me, you know. And I don't know how things could possibly slip my mind, but it did. I promise to get you all the Hershey's kisses in the world and drive you to everywhere in town, but right now I want you, no, I need you to tell me you're okay. Would you?"

But when I did not reply, you sent nothing more, and I fell into a lonely sleep, until I woke up in the morning and found reassurance in my phone.

"Hey, couldn't sleep, have been thinking about you the whole night. Just dropped by to say I hope you're doing fine, and I miss you. Sweet dreams, darling."

And my resolve softened almost immediately.

What was I supposed to think, then?

Delay #9: You pulled me right back into your arms.

After the incident, we became a much tighter duo.

You took me everywhere, as promised, and we hung out so much more that not seeing you for even an hour felt empty to me.

We were so close, so close yet so far.

But you gave me my bit of a fairytale, and in a way, I guess I should thank you.

Because what happened felt too much like a scene from a story, I took the initiative to write things down in the form of a short passage. It was some sort of a journal, posted on my online blog, and I didn't think it fair to edit it in any way.

(Written on the 7th of November, 2008.)

They were walking their way to the nearest shopping complex; his retard of a car let them down and was now in the service centre getting repaired.

She wiped off a bead of sweat that was starting to form, and blamed her stupidity for applying eyeliner. Hello, smudges.

"You know, we should go back." He commented jokingly, his lips curved upwards in what seemed like a smirk. They were already halfway there.

She rolled her eyes, but decided to play along.

"Oh. Okay. Let's go back, then." And turned around and begun walking a short distance. When she halted and looked back, he was still standing there, staring at her in amusement.

She groaned and stomped back to her place beside him.

"You know, when a girl walks away, you're supposed to pull her back." She grumbled tetchily.

"Really?" He smiled, and all she wanted to do was tear that smile off his face. "Okay, okay. Let's do this again."

She blinked at him, befuddled.

"Let's go back." He repeated, his face full of mock seriousness.

She looked up, finally catching on. "Fine. Let's go."

And she turned around and started walking again.

Only this time, She barely made it more than three steps before he reached out and pulled her to him, causing her to stumble and fall into his arms, her lips barely making the sound 'oomph' before he captured her lips in a kiss, ever so smoothly.

So there they were, temporarily deaf and blind to all the passing cars around them, momentarily pausing in a scene that came out of a modern fairytale.

This is happiness, she thought giddily to herself.

He released her from the embrace after a while, and she felt abashed for wanting to relish in the warmth of his body again.

But this is what she was reduced to, whenever he was around.

Did she really care of what others would think?

No, she decided. No, not really.

"You had this all rehearsed, didn't you." She managed to ask with a glare, finally, albeit barely concealing a smile.

"No," He answered smoothly, his gaze intent. "It just came naturally."

You know what turned this moment into a torturous piece of mind?

One. We became another pair of 'in-between's, and I didn't know what you wanted.

Two. The fact that two weeks later, you started dating with someone you barely knew.

Three. And there I was, stuck in the ditch again.

The final piece: You left.

My heart fell to my feet the moment you showed up in front of my doorsteps in what I knew for sure to be your very best navy blue dress shirt and your favourite jeans that hung just right about the hips. Your gorgeous white shoes were cleaned recently, I could tell.

"I know I'm important and all, but really, you shouldn't have to put yourself through all that to look decent for me." I joked, feeling giddy when you chuckled then stuck your tongue out, like you always do, when you have nothing better to say.

"Not for you today, love." You answered, your hands tucked in the pockets of your jeans. You jerked your head to the side a little, indicating your flashy new car behind you. "For a very special guest."

I looked, just like you asked me to. And much to my dismay, I saw what you meant.

Her. That pretty, friendly, intelligent, athletic, sweet and wonderful girl you were going on and on about.

The girl who has everything.

"I love her, you know." You told me with a heart-melting smile, and despite myself, I stared at the girl who has it all.

Including you.

"I know," I mumbled, trying my best to sound happy. I should; after all, you were in love. I could tell from your eyes, it's the way I looked at you. It spelt nothing but those pretty four letters that I now abhorred with undeterred passion. "But on second thought, I don't really feel like shining like a light bulb between the pair of you today. You two go ahead, alright?"

"Hey, you sure?"

"Mm." The light from the sun set was too glaring, my eyes watered. It took me everything not to collapse there and then.

"Okay," You wrinkled your nose, then bent your legs a little so your eyes were at the same level as mine, blue to black. Curious to watery. "Want me to get you anything, then?"

Man, I wanted so many things.

I wanted to hug my Buzzley the big brown bear and cry myself to sleep. I wanted to run around the park until I run out of breath. I wanted to dress up in my most slutty outfit and parade around the town, banging the first eligible guy (and I defined eligible pretty loosely) I see and hopefully get knocked up so I could move to another country and start all over. I wanted to chase you away, wanted to curse you and make infinite voodoo dolls with your names on it, the cause of all those tears that you'd never be able to brush off gently using your thumb, like I wanted you to.

"I want…" I paused, pushing myself to hold it in. I thought of the girl, and peeked behind you for a wave. The girl waved back, being polite. I hated it. And then I hated myself for hating it. Are love fools usually this bitter? I looked up and attempted a cunning smile, "If I may, I want everything she has."

Your blue eyes looked taken aback for a while (Were you surprised by my bluntness, then?), and I thought you finally got it. But then you seemed to have recomposed yourself, grinned and patted me on the head like I was nothing but a little sister, "Right."

With that you spun your heel around and walked breezily to your ride, your partner happily awaiting and anticipating the date to come.

I swear.

I wanted to throw all the stones I could find to scratch and create dents on your car, like how you created dents in that little thing of mine that pumps oxygenated blood everywhere, causing it to feel constricted and like it got thrown into a perfectly functioning turbo washing machine. I wanted you to die. Die.

Die.

Yet I wanted you.

Like a kid who wants the biggest plush toy in the toy shop, but know he'd never get enough money to buy.

Like a family who wants nothing more than to see and spend all the time in the world with their one and only son and brother before he leaves for army, and (quite possibly) never to return again.

Like a girl, oh, just like any other girl, who prays for requited affection.

I found myself sitting on the pavement after you left, wondering what went wrong.

My mind did the deed by replaying scenes after scenes in my head, reminding me of all the times we've shared together.

There were some shit happy times when I thought we were meant to be; there were some bloody depressing times when you left me –but you always returned in the end, and I still thought we were meant to be; there were some angry times when we get into an argument that would last for a very long time, and I realize how some couples are like that, and I'd think that we were meant to be; and there were some sad moments where we did nothing and talked and cried and cried and cried, and I told myself that yes, we were meant to be.

You called me that night, after your date, and starting brainwashing me about what a bomb it was, and how you'd be meeting her parents this weekend. I was quiet throughout the entire conversation, but you took no notice, probably too engrossed with that wonderful girlfriend of yours to care if your best friend was too upset to speak. But it's okay, I don't blame you. I know how it's like to be in love. And I'm sorry I hung up before you could finish telling me about that lobster joke she made over dinner. I wanted to speak, you know. Wanted to say the words so badly, but they fail me. Like they always do.

And now I would have to suppress everything at the back of my mind, only taking it out for reminiscence every now and then.

I love you.

Even though you're too tall and too tanned and too immature and too silly and too retarded and too pervy and too annoying and too friendly (to other… girls.) and too mischievous and too bratty and too engrossed with your online games to give a damn about me sometimes.

But oh, how I love you.

Except.

Except, like some of the less fortunate girls, I get one more sentence, one known truth.

You'd never know.

To you; you know who you are.

Goodbye.

a/n: Bucketful of thanks to Kent in England (yeah I just said that to make you sound that bit more impressive), this is the closest you can get to an acknowledgement in my published work. And teasie, who read and told me what she felt without candy coating a single thing. You know I love you right right? :)

A work of fiction, though some bits were based off true events (glad to say that it's the sweeter parts).

Watcha think?

much love,
can't be too bothered to try making my penname appear. Gah. Stupid fictionpress.
-The awesome one. XP

p/s: In My Own Words was nominated at the TiRO awards! Vote for me if you think you loved the story! Loves!