I know of a girl, and she has been asking herself this:

Why is it that my heart is always the one that gets played? 

Too many people has led her on to believe that she will finally be saved from the dark tower that her past trapped her in. That they will save her. She was just a damsel in distress waiting for a gentle and brave prince to save her. A lot of whom passed her way showed that they were gentle- and many more nice characteristics that made her stomach pitter patter- yet they all seemed to lack the “brave” part. They sang to her, serenaded her with sweet melody, fascinated her with darling thoughts, but they never took a step closer to the tower… 

She’s still looking out the window, waiting. 

She dismisses the thought of the other people she has ignored for these other men. There was three, and they were all nice. They were patient enough to stand by her side, even though their heart aches from knowing she’s wasting her time fantasizing herself with others. This is not admittance that she is going to fall back for them (she’s apologetic), but rather an admittance of her rudeness.

How come we always choose to ignore the ones that love us and choose to pursue the ones that don’t? Why do we push away the ones that show they care and reach for those that don’t? 

Her heart, it now aches. Two people has played with it vivaciously, so vivacious that she enjoyed the melody. They happened to be musicians. The irony, the coincidence of it all.

One tugged the strings of her heart with such melodic tune with the satisfying sensation of writing a brand new song. However, after a while, this new song seemed to be not enough, mediocre, and thus he left it behind, unfinished, with no closure nor ending. Nor reason for his lack of interest.

The other, had fast hands. He was quite the drummer. He tapped beats on her heart as if it was his own drum set. It was the type of percussion she delightfully enjoyed, jumping ecstatically with the bob of her head side to side. But, just like the first one, he stopped producing music with her heart, and had gone to some place else she is ignorant about. Had gone to someone else’s, she might even add. To be on point, his interest faded as well.

Now she’s left with herself. She had offered her heart to people whom she had deemed possessed the potential to make her happy. But as soon as she thought she was going to be saved, they all bailed on her. 

Poor girl, maybe she should just close her heart again. I think that’s what she should do. I hate to see her cry once more over things she does not deserve. 

*Kaboom* That was the sound of my heart gradually exploding to the news my sister reported to me, with the bits and pieces of my tiny little heart crumbling as the message sunk in. It was an explosion in slow motion. 

A few days ago, I had a dream. It was about you, and our little distant friend from a state a thousand miles away. As evidenced by the new things I learned in Psychology class, the only vivid imagery I could remember from that lengthy dream was of you taking a picture of M (let’s call her M) beside a mural of some extraordinary art. We’ve never done this before, but I remember you always taking pictures of me. Sometimes with my consent, and at times without. 

And so what I could take from this dream was that you and M were dating. You and M were together. Happy, together. Happy and together. This unproven, unlikely, and bothersome dream was not a nightmare then. I asked a friend if he knew anything; I tried to fish for some clarifications or revelations. To my heart and mind’s satisfaction, my friend’s uncertain and clueless remarks strayed my mind from the road that led to the apex of my curiosity. 

~

“His mom’s gift to him is a plane ticket to Idaho to see his girlfriend’s family.” 

WHAT?! ARE YOU SERIOUS?? NO, YOU GOT TO BE KIDDING ME. THIS IS NOT TRUE. NO. NO. THAT’S A LIE. YOUR DREAM’S A LIE. THAT’S A RUMOR. NO. CAN’T BE. HER? M? WHY HER? NO THAT’S NOT POSSIBLE. THAT’S NOT TRUE.

It is.

But it is. My sister had started the conversation with a simple question. “Have you moved on from — yet?” I replied with an indifferent tone, telling her that I do not have a definite answer to her question. I had assumed that the reason for why she asked me this from out of the blue was that she had seen my past post on Instagram about your birthday. But no. Oh how I was so wrong…

Plane ticket. Idaho. Girlfriend. See her family. 

As soon as the message- the reality- sank in, the first tear escaped my eye, finding its way down my cold cheek. I was sitting with my friend on the chilly ground then, waiting for our buses. I reread what I just read, then I uncontrollably, burst into an orchestra of pitiful sobs. 

I could not believe it at first. We agreed that we could not continue with our relationship because I moved a couple hundred miles away from home. You said that long distance relationships don’t work. And I had to agree, because for that whole week I have not seen you. I remember telling you over and over that “love knows no distance,” to which you only spat out with how stupid you thought I was for saying that. And now, it seems like you’ve grown out of it, because M lives farther than I. Almost a thousand miles away. 

So I guess that was it. I’ve had three, four, five friends comfort me. I feel so pathetic for feeling this shitty. But you know what, no matter how many times I’ve sworn I’d get better- that I’d be better- this will be my last broken promise. 

I might just grab a match and pile on everything in my room that’s you.

This is the end. I don’t want to be like this anymore. I don’t want to keep feeling mindlessly hopeful for a miracle to happen about the past. It’s ridiculous how much I’ve grown attached to your absence. 

*click click* That’s the sound of my my seat belt detaching. I’m jumping off your plane. I’m jumping off this hot balloon that floats on sentimental and intimate memories of you. I’m finally, escaping the wonderland I’ve made of you and I and the absence of it. Here’s the bomb too.

As far as I know, anyway, you’re not mine. Farewell. And as always, may you be happy.