Somebody Else – The 1975
I don’t quite know why she’s here, wearing that tank top I so love on her, looking at me through those lashes like nothing was wrong.
I know about the new guy she’s seeing, how her friends all love the guy, because he’s rich and handsome in that businessman kind of way—and girls always dig that. I also know they went on a date yesterday so you can just picture the shock on my face when she turned up looking like she wanted me to take her.
Keeping my composure, I opened the door and walked back to where I was, reading a book in my bed, the blinds drawn so the sunlight crept inside my room, illuminating my usual dark cave. Making myself comfortable again, getting the book and opening it where I left off, I ask, “What brought you here?”
She dumped her purse in the sofa in front of my bed and settled there, putting her feet up and making herself at home. A part of me wanted to protest, that no, this wasn’t her home anymore but I couldn’t say the words. Maybe because I knew that I was lying. I knew I’d always be her home, she can always come back home to me, even when she didn’t want me anymore. So I pretended to read my book.
She didn’t answer right away, she took her purse, taking a joint and taking her time lighting it up. She took the first hit, blowing the smoke upwards, watching it dissipate, “I went on a date yesterday.”
My eyebrow twitched, why was she telling me this? I pretended to not know, I raised my eyebrows in question. “Yeah? Who’s the lucky guy?”
“You remember that businessman we met on our third anniversary date? Adam? Him,” she said, devoid of any emotion, not even thinking about how I felt about how casual she talked about us.
If she only knew how my chest constricted with raw pain with her mentioning our third anniversary, the last year we were happy in each other’s arms. And now she doesn’t even care if it was a guy from back then. How fast she had disregarded our love, how casual she talked of the best time of my life, how wasted it seemed in her lips.
“Oh,” I said, trying to say less, before my feelings get the better of me, before she notices how much it affects me. “So, the date…brought you here? Did it suck?”
She looked at me with a weird, ‘are you kidding me’ face, “No. It was good. It’s just when I woke up there, I knew I had to go somewhere and somehow, it led me here.”
When I woke up there.
Fuck. Do I really need to know this? I mean, I know sex is bound to happen between them but for her to confirm it in my face? Do I deserve this kind of pain?
I raised my eyebrows and said nothing, going back to pretend reading.
From my peripheral vision, I can see her stand up from the couch, making her way to my bed, to me. My heart rate spikes up, but I try to remain calm.
“It’s weird, though, why did you let me in? You’re not mad?” She said, on fours, inching closer to the headboard until she settled beside me.
“I know we’ve broken up, but to close the door on you? No. We have so much to lose; we were good friends first before lovers and I don’t want to lose that. I can be your friend again, I guess,” I shrugged, putting down the book and reaching for the joint in her hand, putting it between my lips and imagining our lips touching. I took a hit and put the cigarette away, castigating myself for being so pretentious and a dreamer.
I exhale the smoke slowly, taking hold of my emotions.
“We both know that’s a lie, you still love me,” she says in a beat, with so much confidence, like she still owns me—but then she does, she’ll own my heart, my mind and my soul for a long time, maybe until I die.
I gulp, licking my lips in nervousness, “Maybe I still do, but we both know that can’t be anymore.”
“I don’t know what happened with us, we were so perfect, we were so in love,” she says wistfully and I had to look at her and see her eyes grow unfocused, her memories taking her back to when we were still a team.
Unconsciously, I join her. I look back to when my apartment echoed with her giggles and her stories and questions full of wonder and most of all, our love. How these walls would be witness to how much one person can surrender her being to another, how much kisses and touch can be ways to access a person’s soul, how each wart is a story, each imperfection defines an entirety of stories and feelings—a life.
In the journey back, I can’t help but imagine how somebody else does all this to her now. Does he know how she likes it when her neck is full of hickeys the next morning? How she stares at them and breathe through her mouth, just cherishing the moment and knowing that she’s loved, body and soul.
I steal another glance her way, she’s still sighing, eyes trained in front of her but not really seeing, and I saw how her neck had no hickeys, and I figured maybe that’s why she was here.
“You’ll get used to it,” I say.
She was suddenly thrown off her reverie. She blinked a few times and looked at me, eyes full of question.
“I said you’ll get used to it.”
She reached up and ran her fingers along her collarbone, the exact spot where she liked it best. Her eyes burned with a feeling I don’t recognize and then she stood up, adjusting her clothes.
“You know what, maybe you’re right.” She said before she awkwardly waved goodbye and made her way out.
“I almost usually am but never about you.” I said as I heard the front door slam shut.
I was always wrong about her. I thought she would always be here for me. I thought she was the girl I would wake up next to every morning, grow old with. But I guess she was the girl meant to teach me that no matter how much I try, I’m not bound to get everything I want—especially those that I really do.
(photo credits from tumblr)