FICTION: Dead End

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This morning, I had a dream about you. It was the longest dream I’ve had so far in months. The most vivid of all.

I have this practice of writing down my dreams so I could remember, and this one took longer to write than usual. I counted, and out of the twenty-one dreams I’ve written down in five months, you were in eight of them.

Then, this morning, I woke up from my dream and the first thing I saw was a text message from you. Almost four months since the last time we had an exchange and five months since we last saw each other with friends.

I requested friends to tell you not contact me at all. Or ask somebody else to ask me if you needed to ask me something. The pain is still there, in case you haven’t noticed. It still stings, you know?

Did I mention four of those dreams had her in them, too? I heard she wants to give you a surprise farewell party. Sweet. Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m happy for you two if you’re ever getting back together. That’s what it’s been looking like since the year started anyway. But please, I beg you, can you please keep me out of it?

I wasn’t really sure if that request was ever relayed to you and why you are making your presence felt right now. I have not seen you — have never been that close again — since that one cold, blizzard-y evening. I have tried my best to stay as far away as possible. If it was ever made known to you, can’t you just honor a simple request? It’s summer and I needed the cold to stay that way.

When you asked a friend to tell me to not push through with it at that time (it’s been a little over a year ago, by the way), there were only two things:

  • either you had the intention to consider in the future; or
  • you were still hoping to get back together with her after breaking up almost seven years later.

The latter was clearly the path you have chosen to pursue — and have chosen to fight for. What right do I even have to fight for what could have been? What right do I even have to wave at your face when you said there’s no leaving me behind? What right do I even have to hope against hope that you would even consider?

I have already waived that right. But please, don’t show up again and act as if you did not know what happened, or what was even there. I’m still hurting — and I hate it. I hate that I am hurting. Because of you. Because of your comforting words that I have gotten used to. Because of what did or did not happen. Because I have reached that dead end. And all I can do is turn back and find my way again.

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