|DB and Bes, Long Beach, Mindoro Oriental|
“I’m not being selfish, bes. I was just waiting for you to reach out. Somehow make an effort. You didn’t,” I blurted without looking at her directly. Instead, I focused my gaze on the rumbling cars and the many other vehicles coursing the howling street of Quezon City.
“You of all people should understand. But you made up your mind. I’m tired of arguing. If that’s how you put it, then be it,” she just shrugged and continued with her coffee.
When we parted ways that night, she bid me goodbye, but instead of saying anything, I just looked at her for a few seconds and went on without looking back.
Truth was I really missed her. A lot. That was two days before the gang would traipse the road to Puerto Galera for some catching up and she won’t come with us. I never admitted this to her but I was very jealous of her colleagues at work. Her birthday passed. Mine too. Yet no words came for some blurred reason that goes with time, lack or maybe absence of communication and childishness.
The morning of our trip to Puerto Galera, I was the first to arrive at the bus station. One of those irritating things about meeting my best friends. I’m from the farthest being from Bulacan and yet I always arrive first in every meet-up.
So I was sitting uncomfortably in one of those wooden benches since I’m not used to wearing white shorts (it’s a guaranteed dirt magnet and I’m like a kid with ADHD). And then I saw her. I saw her walking towards my direction, smiling.
It happened so fast I can’t remember how things just rolled in its proper places. Next thing I know we were sleeping in each other’s shoulders in a bus. We talked, we laughed, took some pictures together, munch some Growers, laugh with the rest of the gang…the usual.
We have a different kind of relationship, Irish and me, mostly because of our weird attitudes. But we like to call them our own respective abnormalities. We’re no ordinary bestfriends. We don’t talk the way normal bestfriends would do. We don’t talk about our set of problems in each other’s face, we don’t discuss much our friendship. Mostly, it’s the dirtiest of the jokes that work, insults, breaking each other’s argument, countless debates. More insults.
Saturday night last week, she’s about to go home to Batangas for his brother’s birthday when I texted her: “Bes, it happened again.”
Then we were seated in our usual spot in this coffee shop. I didn’t recount to her how I was bleeding to death that night, or tell her how tired I am for failing over and over. Never did I rant of my frustrations, of this cursed fate bestowed upon me by some heathen god. Instead, we sat together. I cried beside her. She didn’t throw a glance on me as I do. She didn’t pat my back or offer any comforting words. She never did. And I never did for her. Seeing the other in tears is something indecent, unacceptable for the image we created of being tough and an indestructible warrior. But there at the corner of my eye, there I saw, tears falling on her lap in great silence.
I walked her to the bus station, me talking about my plans for my coming birthday. Once there, we faced each other, I patted her shoulder and told her to take care.
As I turn my back on her, as I face the growling mad street alone, I saw that it was crumbling before me. Like it was asking for some sort of help, yet no one is coming to its aid. It was heavy. It is dying. Yet for some reason, no one seems to care.
God forbid you stumbling upon this shameful post, but when you do, please don't mention it. You know how it works. But I am sorry. Sorry for burdening you with my own pains. I know you already have quite a lot. And more than the pain I'm experiencing, it is the pain of seeing you and our friends in deep pain because of my sufferings. I'm sorry that you're all hurting when I'm hurting.
By the way, I love you.