WORDS

"Can I let go? And let your memory dance in the ballroom of my mind."

I couldn't tell precisely, how many words exactly have I wrote about you. Yet when the memories and emotions overwhelmed me, I couldn't help from writing them down again, to stay grounded to the truth of yours and mine.

What is the final count? Who's keeping tabs?

But there was a letter that you had written for me, being the only time you ever wrote anything to me. The first words were "Salam kemaafan."

This is cheesy. You won't approve this letter yourself. Yet it was so brutal that cheesy was inevitable, there was a strong underlying message that we couldn't escape expressing it without being anything but cheesy.

"Aku rasa macam bodoh karang surat panjang-panjang macam ni, bagi kau baca, tapi aku harap kau hadam betul-betul apa aku nak cakap."

The words cut, like knife and butter. And the paragraphs underneath underlines something that was so immensely unspeakable, that the only time you ever expressed it to me were through writings. I never cried that hard in years that evening, realising that I had thought everything wrongly.

Years onwards, we looked at each other with a new perspective, that what we had was perhaps a mistake, but we finally knew that our emotions for each other were genuine and real. But this was something not meant to be; bound to cave in under its own magnitude of feelings right from the start.

I was hanging from a single thread of hope. And you blocked me from facebook and WhatsApp, the only two social medias that I know you use. Everything was telling me that I was the past you were so desperately trying to erase; a text in your history book you wish to reduce to a footnote.

Nothing seems fair. This is unfair to both me and you. Me wanting us to stay the same is unfair to you; and you wanting nothing to do with me is unfair to me. But fairness is not the unit of measurement that we applied in this to calculate our next step. Emotions are too stupid to be put into the equation. Everything seemed to be a lesson that we both had bitterly learnt, and burying each other deep into our conscience is the only way to get rid of the bitterness.

Yet I am, on my lunch hour, thinking about another message you sent me last week, a supposed end to this. That you were in your final stage of moving on, and I haven't even started. 

I couldn't tell exactly how many words have I written about you. And I couldn't tell how many more will I write about you, but know this for sure - there will be no other people who would feel about you the same way that I do; and there will be no other people who would write about you like the way I do.