“It’s not me, not me, stand up, ara”, you think (but what’s the use of thinking?)

Your head is on the sink, and your thoughts sinking somewhere far from here.  Your memories are blurry. What’s there to be sad about? You don’t know. You feel like you’ve been crushed by a bus on a rainy day and you can’t tell when you see your reflection in the glass, if it’s really you and why is it that your face is so unchangeable, steady while in your head, it’s all a mess (it’s you, ara, your face is boring, you’re useless, nothing good will come out)

The water flows endlessly, women come in and leave, not a soul notices you. You lean, drink some water but it burns your throat. The water, the beautiful, colorless, tasteless and pure water, refuses to cross your throat, isn’t that expected? (you’re impure, disgusting) You close your eyes and wait for anything, not knowing what anything stands for. It’s just one of those days when you wait, wait and wait, desperate inside and you figure out it is death you’re calling and life you’re challenging. How unfitting to cease to exist in a bar’s washroom but what would fit you, yoo ara?

You start wondering if the voices inside your head will be quiet, once your being falls into nothingness. You’re abnormally silent. Aren’t you one to throw tantrums each time you’re upset?  “It’s not the same”, you whisper. The sound of your voice surprises you, it’s been so long. How many years has it been since the last time you spoke to yourself? You usually talk a lot to anyone, faster than your own thinking but now, you're by yourself. Normally, with someone, anyone walking next to you, you would put in words how the sky is adorably blue and then, you’d be told that there’s no such thing as the sky being adorably blue and it’s actually the warmth of the sun you like today. You hate so much when someone assumes what you are thinking but you don’t get upset and you concede, you always end up nodding because you know what matters for everyone is their comfort and not the sole beauty of what’s around.  They don’t understand you (they never will), you suddenly feel the urge to see what’s there outside. You forget your bag (you don’t care about it anymore), and you go on, risking one last glance towards the glass, as you’re leaving (you’re not there and it is not you you’re looking at)

As you exit the bar, you walk next to the spot where your high school friends are drinking and telling stories but you don’t notice, not even how he followed you outside. You sit on the floor, your hands encircling your knees. You’re cold but the wind helps you sober up a little. He sits next to you and you don’t bother looking his way (you never did). You know it’s him because he smells the same as before, when he kissed your lips, and said he loved you. He has the same comforting scent as that time when his eyes were only looking at you and you said you didn’t care about him. Why is it that you remember exactly what he smells like?

“ara”, it’s a whisper that you understand as I love you but you’re too busy looking elsewhere, at the starless night sky (you're always looking elsewhere).