socially awkward.

And you’re finally writing it down because you have to release it somewhat.

Because if you talk, whisper, shout, rage about it, people might think you’re not over it.

You might think you’re not over it.

And you are.

You like to think you are.

And when you say that— you say it and believe it, not just because you want to convince yourself.

Lying to yourself has never gotten you anywhere, will never get you anywhere, this much you know— from experience and from basic common sense.

You hurt, you acknowledge it, because otherwise, how can you do anything about it?

Take it from the person who reaches for the aspirin bottle at the first twinge of headache, or who heads for the doctor the minute my cough gets too dry. You believe in remedies, and you don’t get your solutions if you don’t identify your problems.

So when it tidal waved to all the classic symptoms of a brokenhearted soul— loss of appetite, buckets of tears— symptoms you thought were beneath you and beyond, it was easy to identify it as the agony of loss.

Heck, you loved him.

And you lost him.

And you weren’t ready to let go.

It was plain as day.

And you sob, sob, sob and for the first time in your life, you realize that no matter how tough you think you are, you have to cry, and he makes you cry, and made you cry, and you will always remember how he was the one who made you cry.

And your mother tells you, “Oh! How the mighty have fallen.”

And your friends tell you, “He’s not worth it.”

And all the well-meaning cliches and even the admonishments seep into your tear-clogged brain, but you just can’t shake it. Because at one point or another, you believed he was worth it, and the fact that you made him worth your while, and he had the nerve to walk out on it like that, makes you feel even dumber than what everyone thinks you are for hooking up with him in the first place.

And then rage.

At the nerve of it all.

And you let him know how angry you are… only to find yourself even angrier than before, because you can’t stand how calm he still is, how quietly he seems to be going on with his life while yours got tossed around wildly.

And the hell how other people handle their pains differently.

He was almost your best friend and you wanted him to help you, to listen to you, to tell you what to do.

But the irony is, he’s the one causing the pain.

And awards come and birthdays come, and he doesn’t call you.

Not even for “Congratulations” or “Warm greetings!”

And you get it.

You get the picture.

So you put your anger behind you as you realize that hatred is just another strong emotion that feeds whatever it is that should have died with good bye.

So you stop crying.

And you pound on your keyboard every day trying to understand everything, to identify where you went wrong, to squeeze out whatever lesson you can from it. Because you know that unless you learn, the universe will just keep hitting you with the same thing over and over again.

And you’re determined. Not to walk away without realizing the good in it.

And you make vows, about how you will never lose your sense of self again, no matter how engrossed you become in your relationship. How you should never put anything on hold— not your future, not grad school, not even your weekend plans— especially if he never asked you in the first place, but you did, because it was easier to cling than to spread your own wings.

And you repeat it to yourself like a litany to never get complacent, that no matter what happens, your evolution comes first, or at least get equal billing with your relationship progress.

And you backtrack and play the music of your life before you met him— of writing and wall climbing and hanging out with your friends. And you think guilty again, of how you’ve become one of those people you’ve always laughed at, scolded at, scorned.

And you tell yourself— never again.

But sometimes when the silvery blue memories whiz past you on the road, you find yourself jerking forward in your seat, and you can’t believe you still feel pangs in your tummy.

And sometimes it still hits you, when you’re sitting down waiting somewhere, or driving to the grocery, like a wet, cold blanket draping itself over you and you can’t shrug it off and you don’t know why it still has to be heavy to begin with. Then you crank up the radio as you drive along like the devil was after you, and you realize why Filipinos seem to breathe sad love songs, and you grit your teeth this time to rush off.

And finally.

The aching stops.

You’ll never understand why people stop and leave, why feelings die and dry up, how things change beyond our control and understanding, and you learn to live with this darkness. Not everything in this world, you reason out, can be articulated. (Shit happens)?

So you smile again.

You welcome attention that comes your way, not all people are fiends after all. And you open your heart and your world to everything else untainted and still bursting with promise around you.

Your career plans take in shape again, your weekends are full, your time is your own, your life is yours and yours alone.

And you learn to take responsibility for your own happiness.

And you like it that way. It should’ve been that way.

But sometimes, you still get those little pangs. For even if the pain has disappeared, little pictures remain of the movie you acted in together.

But you’re onto it by now.

You’ll never understand everything, but you’re aware that disappearances will always be mysteries, and mysteries have never brought forth complete acceptance because you will always, always be wondering.

But as with any great mystery, it’s a “wondering” that borders on musing.

Because you’d never be puzzled enough to still bother to ask again why or to pave the way for questions to be raised. Some questions you’ve never learned by now, are best left unanswered, will never be answered, don’t need to be answered.

So you acknowledge this and know fully well that not all pangs have to be acted on or remedied.

That perhaps they serve as reality checks, reminders, not necessarily of a boy, of a relationship gone wrong, of emotions wasted or lost

But reminders of the individual that still stands, of mistakes that shouldn’t be repeated, of spirits that still need constant pruning, of souls that should remain afloat no matter how immersed you are in your love.

So the next time you open your yahoo messenger, you see that the boy who broke your heart is online.

“Happy”

That’s what his ym status says.

You just smile and say

“I will be.”