Dying an Elusive

It was those words, those words to that song, the song that reminded me of the once sweet beat in my life.

“I guess this is it,” I wanted so badly to tell him that night, that one last night. Although it never started, I needed a closure—just a hint that there was nothing, that he didn’t feel it like I did... Or maybe, I’m kidding myself again, denying myself of what I want. Maybe, what I needed was not a closure but a strand of hope that he actually cared and somehow felt it, too.

I didn’t say it. I couldn’t. Based on the quotes, it’s because I didn’t want it enough, didn’t want him enough. But I did, though. I did. There was just some glory of force that held me back, and some draining of faith that was all transferred to fate and destiny.

During his farewell assembly, I watched him from afar. Everyone was dancing but me and him. The strobe light blinked against the pitched black garage. It was a repetition that made my eyes hurt and made everyone’s movement seem choppy.

He was lying on the couch, across me, with his feet propped crossed up on the arm rest. Everyone danced between us. His eyes were hooded and watchful. He remained still. Then, in chopped up movements, he came and started forcing me out of my chair. “Dance,” he demanded. I said no. I said I didn’t want to dance. I remained persistent and held on tight to my chair. Not for long, though, so I switched to his territory: the couch. That was the first communication we had during that night.

He came to sit next to me on the couch. The garage was still blinking. We remained detached from each other for a moment and just watched the others dance. Then he scooted closer and leaned his head in. “One more night,” he breathed, as I snuck a glance at him—he was so close, “before I’m out of here.” He sounded so glad but mocking, too. Still, it wounded me.

I slapped him in the arm, but in order to cover up how much I cared, I did it in a teasing way.

Casey stood in front of us. “Man,” she started, “it sucks that you’re moving.” And we hung there, staring at her before she started again, “You don’t care, do you?”

“I do care,” he answered in a straight face and in a matter-of-factly manner. I watched him as he said those words and he seemed weary. He seemed defeated.

I grabbed a hold of his arm with both my hands. “Don’t go,” I begged and as much as I meant it—for fuck’s sake, I meant it with all myself—I said it in a joking manner again. “You’re gonna break my heart if you go,” I told him with overly-exaggerated sadness. He’ll never know how much I meant it.

Tick, tock. Tick, tock. That night was a countdown. Tick, tock.

They said you can never lose what you never had. Why is it, then, that I felt being drained, being deprived, completely stripped off of my right to the pursuit of happiness the moment I started taking steps that increased the distance between us? Why is it, then, that I suddenly lost point and meaning while I stared after him, so beautiful, as I hopped in the car and made my final exit?

I said I’ll sleep. I said I’ll move. I said it won’t hit me anymore. I said I don’t want to remember. I said I’ll be fine. I said I’ll forget you. But more than that, what I really hoped for was if I could skip the part where it hurts.