attached pt. 3

1.

And the inevitable moment of weakness had arrived: I texted him last night.

His tweets were looking a bit bleak, and so the two remaining brain cells in my hallowed brain decided that, as a concerned citizen slash quote friend unquote, I ought to ask him and check in: “Hey, how’s it been? Hope you’re doing okay.”

The response, to my surprise, came a mere 10 minutes later. The message, to no one’s surprise, was curt: “Musta? Bibisita ba ako?”

His intentions could never get more obvious, could it?

I should have taken that as the final straw — this is it, man, we’re done, and I will leave you on seen because you’re a dipshit and I will peace the fuck out — but, yeah. No. I did the opposite. I instead asked him what time he’s free — no reply. I messaged him again after work telling him that I was going swimming until 9 and he should let me know if he’s still down to meet or not. No reply.

In the pool, during swim practice, I could not help but take stealthy glances at the giant clock as if it was the prettiest girl in the room. I wasn’t sure why either. It wasn’t like I was counting down to anything — but I guess I was? Or maybe I was silently praying to Father Time, mentally crossing my fingers hoping that by the time I get out of the pool and take a quick shower and dry my hair and get all dressed and warmed up for the wintery walk to the parking lot, I would grab my phone from my winter peacoat pocket and read a message from him saying that he’s down and excited to meet — yea, nope. No dice. He did not reply at all.

I stalked his Twitter because yes, and I found that he spent the night chatting with one of his online female friends. “[Blank] and I talk once every couple months but it feels like we talk every day,” he tweeted. His friend replied saying that he’s excited for whatever was going on. A couple minutes later he posted some videos that only he and the female friend commented on. An inside joke, I suppose.

Today he tweeted about flying to another city, the city where his ex currently lives. He had told me about this trip before. He said he just wanted to work in their head office for a week, see his teammates and shit. When I pried about his ex, he said he knew I would bring that up. He said it’s really just for work, that’s it.

But he didn’t text me that his flight was tonight. He just never replied.

This is the tipping point, isn’t it? This is the sign. The guy has absolutely no interest in pursuing anything serious with me, and I should absolutely stop pinning my hopes that anything positive could come out of this, whatever it is that we have or, apparently, don’t have.

Fuck man. Coldplay was right. Nobody said it was easy. I’m going back to the start.

2.

On a more positive(ish) notes: I made some progress at work today. I am slowly becoming a little bit more productive compared to how I was when I was in the thick of my kagagahan phase.

Also, I can swim now! Kind of! I can float and do a front crawl, but I still need some practice to improve my stamina. I am also easily bothered when water gets into my ear but, whatever. I have set aside two nights a week until the end of the year for swim practice, so hopefully I improve my swimming skills and I slowly get my head out of this very annoying rut. Hayyy.

Also also, I went out for dinner tonight with some of friends! Woot woot! We went to this fancy Italian restaurant, which reminded me how unrefined and uncultured I am. I mean, I watch French films and read classic literature alright, but put me in front of a table with two forks and two knives and however many spoons — I am lost, breh. I have no clue what to use for what dish.

My friends were all cool though. We weren’t too formal and we were just having a good time, so there was no pressure at all. All of us also came in to the restaurant with our backpacks on, which I thought was funny because we’re all professional adults who have been out of school for years now.

(Come to think of it, what do you guys use for work? A purse? If so, do you not carry your laptops with you? My circle is way too small so everyone I know pretty much uses a backpack to carry their work stuff except for the really old men who have a suitcase slash laptop bag. Hmmm.)

3.

My friends do not know the full extent of my kagagahan phase. I have told two of them about this boy but they only know the most basics of details: how we met, where he works, how he rarely replies to my messages in recent times.

I haven’t told them about the nittiest, grittiest details because I am well aware of how wacko I’ve been about this boy. Even I don’t like myself anymore. I know this isn’t me. I value independence so much that I refuse to live with other people, yet here I am getting one random person who probably isn’t smart enough to even complete a square hold so much power over my life? Tanga.

I also already know — or at least I am assuming that I know — what my friends are going to tell me. One of them already told me to continue seeing other people and not put all my eggs in one basket. The other said that I need tell the boy how I feel and put the ball in his court. I have followed both advice, sort of. I did stop seeing other people because he told me he wasn’t seeing other people. I dunno, man.

And, to be honest, I am not yet totally sure what my next steps are going to be. I know what they should be, but I cannot predict if my kagagahan will once again get the better of me. If this boy texts me once he gets back to the city, will I invite him over? I know I shouldn’t, but who knows, man?

I have abso-fucking-lutely no clue what I’m doing.

4.

I truly sincerely appreciate everyone who recommended songs and gave advice in my previous posts! You guys have no idea how thankful I am. As in as in as in! This kagagahan episode may still be ongoing, but having your thoughts and inputs and just knowing that you folks are there — I feel much, much better. If only I could hug each of you, I would. I really would.

Thank you! There’s nothing much I could offer in return but, still, thank you. 🙂

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Featured photo by Matthew Henry.

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