'We're not meant to be together', he said with chagrin. Those weren't just words. They were a sum-up. A sum-up of years invested. An account of countless tears shed. A conclusion of infinite smiles spread. Thus was abridged an era of my entire being. I wasn't meant to be with him. Perhaps, he was right. How, otherwise, would the vignettes of an epoch I lived with him flash in front of my eyes, just by the mere mention of those words? No, they weren't just words. They were these bricks of reality that hit my head hard. For a moment, I went into limbo.
but how I hate to admit. How I dread that part. That part which leads to separation. And then, depression. For every time he wished he never had me by his side, I died a little inside. No. Today, I had to stop him. I had to put that egotist devil within me to sleep, and run towards the door to block his way. But I didn't. Why? The egotist devil was too difficult to put to sleep? No. Because I, somehow, believed his words. The words that convinced me we're not meant to be together. To hell with the years of togetherness. Eternally together we were, until hardships knocked, and thus, love flew out of the window in a bat of the eye.
Tell you the truth, when you start bragging about the number of years you've been together more than your love for each other, you know it's time to pull down the curtains. No, I don't intend to sound cynical, but a lot of friends of mine brag about their relationship with their significant other as if they're a perfect example of the Romeo-Juliet chronicle, little knowing the fact that time span does not boil down to a healthy, successful relationship. 'Oh, me and my guy have been dating for five long years', 'Come on, are you challenging seven years of relationship experience?' Funny how, during conversations over coffee, the number of years replace the amount of love they
Be that as it may, breakups suck. To the core. After a cascade of heart-melting, tear-jerking, soul-stirring emotions all throughout the years of affectionate closeness, you open yourself to a world of heart-wrenching, unnerving, intimidating impressions, where the first few days are spent only in figuring out what the hell is wrong with the world? No! I don't want to be there. I want to be with him. How easy it is to say, how difficult is it to act upon the same. Through the anger, the tantrums, the hurt, the pain, and the tears, you decide you're going to go back, little knowing that, chances for things to become worse are much more than the ones for things to better. These erratic thoughts of a mind too wayward are difficult to hound. When you're convinced about the split, you realize, you've got two choices to dwell in the memories of the good times that turn out to be a perfect escape from reality, or to move on. But how could one move on? Even at a distance of 500 miles, I made it work through the endless number of calls that carved my relationship, through the heebie-jeebies in my mind months before we were to see each other, through the countless song dedications, through the years I didn't get to see him yeah, it lasted. It bloody well did. How could I frickin' move on? This messed up state and this haywire self is good. If only I were granted a single wish, I would not want to meet George Clooney or Idris Elba, nor would I wish for a Megan-Fox-like figure. I'd rather take all those words back, mist of which hazed the good times. Just one chance, to undo those mistakes. The words that pricked, the actions that drilled. Emo, much? Yeah.
I don't know what to say to people who're perplexed about dealing with a break-up. All I know is, time, unfortunately, is the only healer. Funny how the one phrase, this too shall pass, fits in both happy as well as sad situations. Harsh truth, but it's therapeutic. Don't break the heart. Maintain the faith. Try all you can to make them happy. Because if, ever in life, you're victimized by a circumstance like this, you'd not have to question your love for the significant other. It's there. Forever. Isn't it?
