When we part, he takes my hand in both of his. Another sign of clear conscience, cleansed pain, erased memories. No awkwardness. Only fondness. He is able to put the past behind him. The wind has blown out the spark of hope and the door has closed.
I had agreed to this meeting because I wanted to open up, finally. But looking at him, at the calm lake of his eyes, I know I will never destroy his peace by telling him what had occurred between his father and me, not once, not twice, but thrice, maybe more, and how I had returned voluntarily, how I later tried to blame him in my mind but it was I, I too wanted it, weak as I was, I myself was startled at how easily it had happened, and then afterwards how could I go back to the son as if everything was the same, and how in the following days I, alarmed and confused, unsure what to do, conflicted, pulled apart, guilty, remorseful, miserable, withdrew to myself, not all of a sudden, because that would draw attention to myself and that would not do, but one day at time, my head exploding with the horror of what I had done, and my heart unable to bear the ache of having to see him that I fabricated excuses to not meet him anymore, he would never remember the last time I visited, nor would he connect anything with anything else, he was too pure to imagine such things happening, and then I, figuring out that I would never again see him or his family in the same light, would refuse meetings, deny kisses, and when we occasionally met I would be distracted, my heart screaming to go home, so eventually, unable to fathom what had happened, with his heart breaking slowly against my already shattered one, he began to focus his energies on his studies, his job, the distance between us growing with nothing said, until the gap became longer than the time we had been together, and we finally decided that we were free of each other, of commitments, of old promises, and we blamed our studies and our job and life—life which could be blamed for everything, even for the mistakes humans impress upon each other—and to everyone who enquired, for the whole neighbourhood was abundantly curious, we said we drifted, we drifted apart, we were young, and time and distance interfered, we drifted apart, it just happened.
Nothing good lasts forever.
I must stop looking for meaning. There is no point, no meaning to anything—all you need to do is survive; move forward, learn something, keep something to yourself, help someone, do something to feel the glow in your heart, find something to look forward to every day. There is nothing else.
That’s it. It’s over. He is gone. I know our paths will never cross again. Even if they do, it’s over.
There are no more long conversations in the café. Here or anywhere.
I’ll not stalk him on social media. Maybe I will, once or twice, if the pain becomes overwhelming. This grief I would carry forever. Maybe it will diminish. This might as well be the beginning of the end for me as well: my closure. But the feeling of having done the right thing—an outburst of the truth when it happened might have helped, but now it would help no one, least of all, me—I can’t decide if it is the right thing or if I will change my mind later; but today, for me, it is.
His open, honest face and his clear smile will be enough for me to go on.
