Not the End

There is an old red mark on the calendar, a circle all around the 30^th of March. You blink, curiously, trying to remember the date, trying to recall the event planned, the reason for today to be highlighted.

It takes a minute for it to come to you but it is just normal, it’s been two years since this day had a meaning, since you last celebrated it. You stare at it for a moment that stretches with a load of flashing instants that you try to grasp, take a look at, contemplate the fading pages of vivid recollections, but they leak out from your memory, dissolving into the back of your head, a black canvas of nothingness. But there are things that you haven’t forgotten yet, despite the time, despite your intent to force him out of your mind: his smile while watching you, his hands entangled around yours, fingers pressed together, the faint smell of watercolours and acrylic paints, the dots you could trace, fingertips lingering over his skin, dancing among shapes and black inked flesh, his always tinted hands that idly doodled on the back of your arms, lazy patterns portraying the story of your life. He danced with you to the soft music of his heart, holding you as if you were his most valuable treasure – and, for a while, you were and he was yours (yours to love, yours to care, to keep, to stare at early in the morning, with his hair disarrayed, a splash of yellow over the pillow, eyes closed, all his features relaxed, the sun caressing the bronze of his flesh alongside gentle touches peppered like summer rain). His kisses brought your senses back to life, you drowned into them, in him, lost in the deepness of his macchiato eyes, the taste of caffeine sinking to your spine, buzzing with energy, vibrating. You held onto him, spiralling around him like his satellite, submerged under his light, bathed by his overflooding passion, his determination, his way of leading you to be better, to feel loved, protected, cared for. Being with him was an eternal summer night, with soft breezes cooling your heart, waves your feet, walking on the beach, your traces gently disappearing, the shore covering it up. Being with Minho felt like the smoke after the vibrant colours of fireworks had faded away, blanched, a myriad of hues diminishing into puffs of nothingness.

It wasn’t one big thing happening between the two of you and, even if he was the one to break it off, he isn’t the only one to blame – you were at fault, too. Calls became awkward, text shorter, nonexistent conversations, never enough time to meet up, to talk, always occupated, always moving, always with someone else but you, always at work and you couldn't reprimand him because you did it, too - avoidance, distance, the vacuum space on your chest growing, growling his name like a curse. 

Like trying to catch the rain with hollowed palms, it became impossible to keep track of him: he was busy with his art, his exhibitions, his many friends coming and going, never staying long enough to share a good-night kiss. You, too, were immersed in your job, working as much as Minho did just to match with him, just to balance the situation but it only made it worse.

He didn’t get tired of waiting to see you overnight, he never failed to amaze or surprise you when he remembered your existence, when he had a minute to spare, a second to glance at the wonder that he said were you – he gasped at your beauty every time he set his eyes on you, despite four years by your side, he was always captivated, smitten by the gleam on your smile, the light poured from the moon orbiting inside the stars lingering in your orbs. You both simply felt out of sync, out of rhythm, dancing to different tunes, wobbling to fit into mismatched songs. The long, lonely nights became a constant, the feeling of being alone crept on you, persisted even on those rare occasions you were together: it didn't matter, it was already over, you just had to say the words. And you slept on your problems, pretending they weren’t there, pushing them under the sheets, never talking because mentioning them would ignite a fight, would crumble down what you so carefully built up – you kept them pressed inside like dried flowers in a book; in the end, they caved in, nothing but sand and dust, the end you waited for (but even if expected, it still hurt, left you unsure).

Recollections pile up inside your head, all the instants together, that belong to him and you spinning in your mind, ephemera of lost days drizzling, silver tickets of forgotten events becoming phantoms playing games in your mind, haunting your days like boring rain, and you wonder if Minho thinks about you, too, if he remembers your name, not as a heavy burden, but as a fond memory – if he, sometimes, take out the old photographies and stares at them, evokes the reminiscences of a shared past, if he looks back and misses you, tracing with longing fingers your shape engraved in papers just as he is water-coloured forever inside of your heart, scribbled on your veins, running tamed along the surface of your bones (if he regrets having you tattooed deep down on his ribcage or if the phantom of your name, gently passed down as a shadow of a memento gives him chills, repulses him, or if he is over you like you pretend to be - you are, mostly, Minho's presence is only arused with a glass of gin and jazz playing on).

You trace the red circle, feeling dust under your nails.

How egoistic he was back then, and how naive you were to accept it - the indifference, the contempt, the silence, all the muttered scorns for not purchasing passions you never had, the discontentment: you were disconnected from the person you used to be just to please Minho, just to make him proud, - you contemplate, feeling the vacuum space amid your chest and demand for another round of ragged memories. He wanted it all and you couldn't provide the moon to him, you failed, stumbling on your own feelings, hampering Minho who had always ran ahead of you, miles increasing between you both and, soon, he was out of reach, impossible to catch up with. And you stopped trying, leaving him to his own, coldness setting under your core, bitterness consuming you with freezing flames of blue and red.

You smile, feeble, staring at the date, nostalgia climbing all the way, draining water from your eyes, tears softly rolling down your cheeks. You shake your head, cleans the drags of smoke and cobwebs from where Minho stares back at you, his smile – the one you so much adored - still in place, smirking lovingly, bringing back the emptiness of losing him – it falls, vast and infinite, over you again, soaks you with melancholy and sadness, the solitude you have imposed to yourself. It’s true, you still miss him even if it’s only as a memory, a ghost besetting you, replaying under your eyes what you had, what you didn’t take care of – what you tried to protect but that time squandered, eroded until it was nothing but a waste, too late to save the remaining bits of a love so great that blazed higher than the sun.

It’s been two years and you are stronger now, you don’t need him – you have never really needed him, or anyone, you have yourself and that’s enough: you just loved him so very much, loved the sensation of being surrounded by his light, by his contagious joy and endless passion for a world he drew for you alone to witness. You are better like this, on your own, but it's his birthday after all and you pounder if, perhaps, calling him would be a good idea - if he still has the same number or he has changed it in fears that you would phone him late at night, drunk and sad, trying to win him back (you never did it, you tossed his name out of your heart, crossed him from your memories, you had your pride).

In the end, it’s him who texts you, who does the first move, the message popping on the screen by surprise. Maybe he has been recalling you, too, your name wrote on the margin of a forgotten page, your face scribbled over a sheet of paper, a shadow passing in front of his eyes under your shape or mayhap it is just a mere coincidence and you are overthinking again. 

He asks about your whereabouts, about how you are coping with life; he shows interest in you as if it was the first time getting to know you. He says sorry, too, but you don't believe in it, recalling his cold expression while bidding goodbye to you - the hollow inside of his eyes, his serious countenance, his nonchalant commitment to you. He still feels familiar over the phone, his words once he has already said before - words ravelled on your heart, shred thrown over you. His voice graces you with the wind coming from the opened window, brings in the perfume of spring, flowers blossoming - a soft murmur, low and deep like the quietude of the sea. He replies to you in heartbeats, continually lacing affection with them, casually letting you know that he misses you - and, this time you can read sincerity on his words.

The soft pink of a late afternoon creeps from the window, darting over you and his reply sticks on your phone, waiting for another answer you still have to form. You haven’t expected this to happen, haven’t expected Minho to text you, to keep you on your phone as if a teenager, waiting, awaiting for more, chuckling at the characters appearing on the screen, feeling the taste of his name on your skin. It feels like a movie, but you know better than to ask for something the answer you already know – you don't long to have him back, you are just curious about the person he is now (and you wonder if he is, too, different, if he is being honest with you when saying he has changed). You haven’t been waiting for him for two years, no: this movie is long over, this is merely an unconnected sequence, a snipped of what could have been but that never will, you promise yourself, the phone itching on your hand, whizzing. 

[But I’m still here, it’s not the end] it reads his last message and you blink as it blinks back at you. You haven’t typed your answer because you have none to give – your heart bursts, hurts, trembles in anticipation filled with excitement and fears and doubts.

He has said sorry so many times in the span of a few hours and you are sure that he is sincere, that he regrets breaking up with you – you did it, too, but now is too late, you have grown, matured, you are on your prime now, full-bloomed: you are thorn between the sweetness memories of romance or the solitude of real life. 

[Maybe] it’s what you reply at the edge of dawn, the sky navy blue, the stars tilting, gleaming inside your eyes. You don't want to be too eager, to say more than you intended, so you keep it calm and collected - but you are whirling with enthusiasm, exhilarated, thrilled. 

[Let’s get a coffee then!] and you can hear the cheerfulness of his voice, the musically of his words reflected inside a text. You giggle stupidly at the phone, stupefied at your decision – but coffee can’t hurt and you are curious, too, to see what has been of him, how he is doing: because you love yourself but the novelty has gotten the best out of you, has won this match against what it’s best for you (and, maybe, Minho will be good for you again as he used to be back then).  

Opposed to your better judgement you meet up with him and it isn’t awkward, you fall into pace with him, as if time never meant, as if your relationship were never interrupted. He picks up the pieces you drop and conforms your tale, recreates your life, explains that he has been dating someone but it didn’t last.

“He was very good, but nothing compared to you,” he says, rosy blooming on his cheeks. “In all the aspects,” he adds, a little ashamed and you roll your eyes, embarrassed.

You chat with him, interested, listen to what he says, nodding attentively, following the dots, recreating the missing parts of a life he had without you. And it's nice to talk to him, it feels new, fresh, and Minho flirts and you take the compliments with blushing cheeks and dismissive hands. You blink and morning is over, the rush of cars on the road, horns and loud voices bring you back from the dream that it is being with Minho and he smiles at you, all sunny and gorgeous, agrees that time has fled while conversing with you.

He asks for another meeting. And then, another one and, soon, it has been a month and Minho is all over – over the phone, over your life, over your skin. He brings you to restaurants, shows you his workshop, his colourful canvas ready to be sold to the public, he goes to the movies with you, picks you up from work and joins you at home, watching TV on the couch, the cats entangled around crossed legs and fingers interlaced. He is taking his time, acting all friendly and kind but you see the intentions below, you feel the same way, too, your hearts reconnected, beating at the same cadence, dancing hand in hand to the same old song.

It’s just a matter of patience: he will ask you out sooner or later. You have read all the corners, the nooks and crannies, all the lyrics inside of his head, that he spills for you, unaware – you know him well, you know him inside-out, there isn’t a secret he can keep from you, even if he says nothing, you senses it tickling the surface of his mind, pushing through his lips, wanting to be revealed, exposed to you.

Maybe he was right when he said it wasn’t the end but another beginning, you think, your head resting on his bare skin, listening to his paused heart-beats. You chuckle and he looks at you, his hair a mess of blond flocks sticking everywhere, his pale brows furrowed, a crease between his eyes. You sit up, your hands landing on his chest, propelling to reach the lonely mole at the tip of his scrunched nose. He giggles at the motion, holds you by the waist, positions you to sit upon his lap.

“What’s funny?” he asks, endearingly, lashes batting slowly, head full of dreams. But his smile falls on you like the sun over the ocean: bright, warm, a promise foreverness – and you kiss it, again and again, every single freckle you see, you kiss them all until there is no more skin to reach out, until Minho giggles, tickled by your lips on the curve of his neck. 

“Nothing,” you say, pressing your mouth, leaning it against Minho’s, your hands drawing lazy circles, butterflies nesting on his shoulders, caressing the tattoos stitched over his flesh – a blue rose, a sunflower, words written to himself. “We have changed, right? We will do better this second time?” you wonder and Minho can only nod.

“I never stopped wanting you, I just thought I couldn't have you back then, that it wasn't the right moment,” he explains, dragging his lips to covers yours, "I loved you from afar, even when I tried to redo my life with someone else, it didn't feel good. It feels good with you: it is good, perfect. And I'm not letting you go unless you want to," he says and you shake your head, scattering black ink all over his eyes, "then, it's not the end," and it is an oath, a pledge to you, to your heart.