Love Letters to J

Dear J.,

I saw you earlier.

I saw you while I was leaning against the wall, at our usual spot, where you met me last Monday and swept me off to your place, thus saving me from sure awkward conversation with some person we both did not like. I was sure you'd already left by that time; after all, times like these, you always went straight to the shuttle terminal.

My heart skipped a beat. I know that gait. I know that walk. I know that blouse and that hair and those pants and that bag. It was you, after all, but crossing the street to the McDonald's that was going through renovation. You walked ahead. Perhaps you saw me, perhaps you didn't. Perhaps you didn't care at all. I couldn't blame you.

I decided to follow. By the time I turned the corner, you were nowhere; lost in one of those crowds, getting into the shuttle, turning your phone off. I stopped at the 7-11, wanted a cigarette, then realized that I have to be strong enough to say no, then walked back.

It's funny that I write these love letters whenever we have a fight. Or that you have to write me one (or a dozen!) first, then I write back. These letters are, in varying degrees, apologetic. It's either I turn off my music player or I listen to something sad. Then I tilt my head up so that the tears won't fall. It's been that way a lot of times. But today, I won't succumb to that urge.

The first week is always the busiest. That first week of December was the most magical. In between exchange rates and cash-versus-card expenditure reports, I saw you. I told myself, There goes a jazz tune, and listened. I still listen, you know; only the station has changed and now it's Julie London and not Miles Davis.

I picked that spot earlier because that's where I listen to Miles Davis while waiting for you. Other times would have seen me with a cigarette in one hand, lighter in the other, trying to keep the heat out. Today, I had a jacket on. That jacket you gave me that first night.

By this time, you should probably be on your way home. Around this time, work would be suspended while I wait for your next message. In a few minutes or so, you should be in Shangri-La, where we've logged so many miles on foot. In an hour, you would be home, and I'd be waiting for you to send me a message.

I went to work earlier today, hoping that things fall into place and I'd go to your place and we can talk things over. Maybe today isn't the right time, nor tonight, nor tomorrow; maybe it is next week, or the next month. Maybe I'm meant to fail after all. But remember this one thing. I am here. I am not going anywhere. This is something that I deserve and I won't protest it. I don't know if I still have the right to another chance, because you've given me too many second chances already, but I still ask you for another chance anyway. Right or none.

Please.

Sorry,
J.

I know the past few months have been hard. There are times when you'd just put your hand to your face after I said something awkward, or you'd walk out on me after yet another faux pas, or I'd have not enough cash on hand and you'd have to treat me to dinner.

There are times, too, when I am hard to understand, when there are things I do that are harder to understand, that there are things which come between us that are hardest to understand, and times like these I can only look out the window, see you there, thinking of me (or at least trying not to do so), and I promise to myself that I'll never trip over again.

There are times when, after promising never to trip over again, I do so, and more than a dozen times, I have. You've said that you do not want to be everything again, do everything again, think of everything again. There are times when we get tired and fight and these keep us awake and we get stuck, in a rut, and we say things we don't mean.

I know I'm not perfect, J., but you should at least know that I am not out to hurt you of my own volition. Things happen and we get stuck in the middle and for the most part it's my fault.

Yet when we are happiest, it is you who does most of the work. And I don't know how to give back. I keep on telling myself, sooner or later I will make it up to her, but little ever gets done. What precious little I do cannot make up for everything you've done, all of them.

You told me more than once, whenever I tell you that I can live without you, don't you believe it; I knew it was true. But this silence, it kills; I've slipped, I've lost my foothold, I'm trying to find my way back.

Again, I'm sorry. And please be patient with me.