A letter from a place of heartbreak (July 2025)

Of all people, I thought that you would be the one to consider me the most. So why didn't you? Why did you just lie idly in passivity? How is it fair that you get to have deep and interesting conversations with your friends or spend/sacrifice something on your outings with them? How could you say that you didn't think of me at all, because I was always making the effort? You said you didn't think of me because I was always the one reaching out, the one with the independence to travel 95 kilometers for you. I asked not for you to travel the same distance, but to visit me from time to time when you are nearby, and for us to meet halfway, and yet you also said that you were always tired/busy every weekend when you're home/near me to go and visit. Funny how a few weeks after, you went partying on a Saturday during your finals week. How could you just do that? How could you just take and take, like the threads in my polo easily being pulled loose, after promising me that you wouldn't, and that you would try harder? What hurts the most is that I can't see or feel this promise take shape, and for letting that happen. Still, you held me in your warmth. You knew of and accepted the parts, quirks, and scars that only a few know. You were the ocean breeze that caressed my tearstained cheeks with tenderness. And for a brief moment, your eyes sparkled with the promise of tomorrow and certainty— and I hate that I, too, hoped for such a thing. I hate that I still care and remember. I hate that I still crave your hugs. I hate that I am still crying as I write this letter. I hate that I can't fully hate you even if I tried— though I've tried. However, it just slowly ate me up from the inside as if it were a stubborn wound. Everything just lingers and festers silently, and I don't know how to stop the bleeding. And so I unconsciously ask myself in every silent train ride home, in the busiest places of my campus, and in the static nights where there's no more surprise calls in FaceTime— of why I am still here? Why am I still hurting when I know how much you said in the silence of your actions and consideration of me, and that we are not for each other at all? I first knew about our incompatibility when I found myself zoning out in our daily conversations about academics or just the usual recount of the day. i had a feeling that something was missing or that i wanted to break free from this routine— to talk about something stimulating than the usual "what happened in your day or class earlier?" but at that time i didn't know what it was, or maybe i did and i just tried to turn a blind eye to it. A few times, I did try to veer off from our usual mundane topics because I wanted to soak up every bit of your brain and history. However, I was met sometimes with teasing but more often with boredom, as if it were too nerdy or my curiosity was too much. Admittedly, I know that you have a hard time expressing yourself as well, and I tried to be patient, but I wanted more, and I still do. I want to talk about god, regrets, things/values that shaped us, philosophies that we live by, and the stories before us. Another one was when we were looking too far ahead of us, and you shared with me that you always wanted to have kids, and I told you (or maybe not, I can't recall as much) that I didn't want one. Even before you, I always knew that I could/would never raise another child (for I always have my hands full with the one that lives inside me.) But again, at that time, I was foolish enough to convince myself to want the same thing, for the future sounded too sweet to have it shattered. So I replied with lies of uncertainty. And I'm sorry for that, for not being honest with my feelings, for delaying the inevitable, for putting pressure on you with your parents, and for every teardrop that I caused. But above all, I'm deeply sorry for you and to myself, as I gave up on us. I'm sorry, I'm so so sorry. But I know enough now, and that I won't go back. I understand that we are simply not for each other, but even so, the truth hurts all the same; maybe it's because I truly did see a sliver of permanence in your eyes, as I am painfully aware of the fleeting nature of life. But even with this awareness, I don't know how to make any of it stop or simply to make myself "unstuck" from this place even if I rationalize my feelings and foolishness, or even when I'm talking it out with my cousins or drinking about it with my friends. I feel like the soil beneath me knows everything that I never said to you and all the emptiest of feelings that I wallow to. I could only hope for a change— whatever that may be— in time. This hope may very well **** me again, but I have nothing else that I can hold on to nor have anything to lose at this point. And so let me hope once more, that for when I read this letter to myself again, I hope to have grown the wings that I am dreaming of today. Here's to remembering this place: https://open.spotify.com/track/2fuYa3Lx06QQJAm0MjztKr?si=06cd63edcdb84da4 - 8