She loved me enough to walk away, loved me so deeply to let go for that is how she put it. I always thought if she ever left I would die and I was right because when she left I died to all that I ever lived for. It all sounded like a joke or maybe to her it was it must have been just another text,
“Hi! I think we should take a break”
That’s where we began.
I didn’t know it then but was to soon find out first hand that the girl of my dreams actually loved me enough to know that we had no future together. She could not see it, we could not be, and she was right. It was her last self-sacrificing act of unrequited love. How could I be right when she knew what was best for both of us? The worst part of it was that she kept telling me it had nothing to do with me, it was all about her.
Soon I found myself hanging in the balance; dangerously swerving at the edges of the stiff cliffs, tittering on the brinks of total destruction, failing at all attempts to hold it together. I was officially caught between a rock and a hard place. Doomed if I communicated, doomed if I didn’t. Judged if I reached out and judged if I didn’t. Before I knew it, everything went South and my whole life went with it. I remember the countless nights I would sit in my dark room with lights out and stare at my phone, endless days I locked myself indoors, beneath the blankets, because even daylight depressed me. Constantly hoping, praying, craving, longing for just a text from her, battling within myself whether to send her one and offend her or hold it still and die a little more inside for that love.
Those days when a “please call me” text would have meant more than a million pages of love poems or a million shillings MPESA message yet they never came, all I had were blank screens and painful aches that no medicine known to man can treat. For days I lived, ate and slept, walked absent mindedly in the streets hoping for that vibration from my phone, checking it every time if maybe she had called and I didn’t hear but she never called and I was damned if I called her. The further we grew apart the deeper my heart craved for her arms or even just her voice. Even harsh abusive words from her over the phone would have healed my rotting wounds. I waited and waited for my dreams to come true but as the clock ticked only my nightmares became more profound.
Reality finally dawned on me that she had actually left me, maybe for the love of a better man. That is, if men really love. People tell me about hell but I have been somewhere worse. I don’t think hell scares me. Desperation became my most reliable friend, company and ever present companion. Loneliness was more faithful to me than our undying love. All because I loved her and she was right when I was wrong. The light within my soul went out. I ran in shame from the light, retreated to a dark corner where my dead spirit could rest in peace away from the prying eyes but those eyes, damn the eyes, they always found their way to me.
As I lost myself, everything else went with the man me that I was yet I was stuck. I was in a dilemma because even had I found the words, how do the dead speak to the living? Can the living really understand what death feels like even if the dead man found words to accurately relate his dead state? How do you explain losing your mind to people who have theirs intact? How does a dead man survive in the world of the living? Yet there I was, every rising sun trying to act warm and okay, swift and agile with my dead cold corpse and stiff remains incapacitated by rigor mortis. Man must live, I kept telling myself every single day.
One day I will talk about this pain but not even words can express its depth, ferocity and magnitude, those words are yet to be found. I am however wrong. I am still a child and a stupid one at that, a spoilt little kid without control of his own emotions. That’s why my broken pieces would still plead within: “Oh God but I love her!” Kneel my broken being and scattered pieces and pray fervently to a God who had either gone on a honeymoon and switched off all his communication lines or plugged his ears with sound proofed headphones blaring loud music yet I never stopped.
My broken pieces kept pleading my cause even in their state of nothingness, the bleeding mess and scattered pieces kept asking God: “But God I love her, please bring her back!” He never answered me. Oh poor silly me, how was I supposed to know that men never love? How was the naive me supposed to understand the gravity of the statements; “all men are………” “you men are…..?” I guess only the love experts know it too well, so I keep right-wrong with me to save you the agony of feeling a man’s internal turmoil that should not even exist in the first place.
I am yet to find closure. It has been tricky because I still don’t know exactly why she ever left. Maybe I will never know but I will right my misled outlook and thank the heart that bled and healed, gift the soul that rose from the ashes, grease the bones that rose from the grave and salute the heart that recollected her broken pieces. Thank her for being whole again. I owe my heart this story so I will let her tell it when she – my heart- finally gathers the guts to speak about what she went through. One day I will talk about the love I lost.
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