Stuartdanker.com

Hi guys. Thanks for following this blog so far, but it's time I move to my own domain, and try being serious with this writing thing.

The awesomeness resumes here

Staying true

It was happening again. The Japanese restaurant's fluorescent bathed the four of us. I just started dating Ann, and the other two were strangers. With a ratio like that, I was bound to shrink into my own little bubble.

If I wasn't on medication, I'd be two pints in, and much more fun to be around. Unfortunately, this wasn't one of those days, and sober socialising would have to do. Sometimes, I think the prohibition came about because people were having fun--which was not encouraged in the twenties--and got legalised again when everybody realised they'd rather tolerate social ills than a boring night with an introvert.

"So..." Petrina said, trying to break the silence. "What did you say your job was again?"

I lifted my eyes off my cup of green tea. "I'm a writer."

"Oh wow. A writer! That sells," she looked at Ann and gave a nod of approval.

"Thanks. How about you?"

As a socially awkward person, these three words are as clutch as they come. What's your name? I'm Stuart, how about you? Did you enjoy the movie? Yeah. How about you? What do you think the meaning of life is, and where are we headed as a collective species? ... How about you?

"Ah, I work as a consultant. Boring job."

"Oh."

Another moment of silence. I looked over at Jon. "How about you?"

"I guess I got the boringest job here. I'm an engineer."

"Yeah," my friend Ann said. "We sure do have the worst jobs."

Silence. I lowered my gaze and nurtured a sudden interest in green tea. It's not that I'm always like this. I have my moments as well, but sometimes (read: most of the time), all I want to do is curl at home with a book, and not have to talk, or show emotion at seemingly incredible feats. You could tell me that you won a gold medal in the Olympics and the most I'd be able to muster up is an upward nod and an exaggerated ahhh.

Ann must have sensed my discomfort, because she took the over the podium, recalling the fun times they had in diving class, and the common friends they shared. She had to; they were her friends. In some ways, I felt like I was just along for the ride. I slowly rotated my cup. Objects that remain stationary in my drink while I spin the container has always been an enchanting phenomenon, to me at least.

While my fingers worked the cup, I was reminded on how much I hated mingling. What comes as a natural skill to some is something that will forever remain out of my grasp. As my brain jogged through cringe-worthy memories, it hooked onto one particularly outstanding reel, in a not so distant past.

"Why don't you say something?" my date asked. This was years back.

"I? Er..."

"You're so quiet you know that? That's so rude."

"Me? Why?"

"You really are terrible you know that?"

I remembered that date like it was yesterday. It was an awkward date, equally due to her confrontational whispers, as it was to my quietness. We spent the drive home in silence. Back then, I was convinced that something was wrong with me, and being quiet in front of her friends was my fault. I reasoned that introverts had no place in this world.

"You need to change, you know that?" she finally said.

"I guess."

"You really do. You need to talk more, and not be so boring."

"Okay."

It was not okay. First of all, it hurt. Second, it made me deny who I was as a person. I'd spend the following years forcing myself to talk to cashiers, cab drivers, and strangers just to chase this elusive trait that was sociability. I hated every moment of going to the clubs or accepting my friends' invitations when all I wanted to do was have a quiet night alone. I thought that maybe it was something I could work off, like a bad habit. I didn't. Needless to say, that relationship didn't last.

No big deal. I was getting used to it. It wasn't the first time it's happened. I had the opportunity to meet a few great souls with big hearts, but besides those special few, the rest always seemed to want to change me.

I was certain that the dinner with Ann, Petrina, and Jon wouldn't be much different. I didn't mean to be rude, I'm just not the type that captivates groups of people with wit and humour. I might have a fighting chance on paper, but not in real time.

After dinner, we traded goodbyes, and I walked Ann to her car. We walked in silence, and it felt like déjà vu once again. I figured a pre-emptive disclaimer was necessary.

"I know I was quiet," I said. "I'm sorry if I seemed anti-social."

"Quiet?" she said. "Just a little maybe. But what's wrong with that?"

"I don't know... people always take it personally when I don't talk."

"That's just silly. You silly boy." She smiled, and took my hand. "You're a good listener, and that's what I like about you."

"Oh."

All this while, I've been trying to conform to everybody else's expectations. I never thought people who'd appreciate me actually existed. Because of this, I learned that the reverse is also true, that I shouldn't be so quick to judge, and not try to change anybody.

"You are who you are. I probably would have hated you if you talked more. We'd be fighting for talk time." She pulled me away from the parking lot. "You know what? Forget the car. Let's get some ice cream! What's your favourite?"

"McDonalds sundae, how about you?"

She laughed as she gave me a kiss, and with that, restored my belief that introverts do indeed have a place in this world.

The things we take for granted

Hi all! Part 2 of the vampire story is coming soon, but here's a nagging story that pestered me the whole week. I had to get it out of my system. Enjoy!

***

The car inched slowly toward the traffic lights. Ethan's knuckles flared white from gripping the wheel. His teeth gritted at the thought of being stuck with everyone else in rush hour traffic.

"At least 50 people were killed at 63 people wounded in a clash in the Anbar region," the radio's newscaster announced.

Ethan yawned as he took out a stick of cigarette and lit it. He figured that once he was done with it, he would have passed the traffic lights, the worst part of his daily commute.

"Women and children were among the casualties."

Ethan looked ahead. Almost there.

***

"Are we there yet?" asked Jeremy.

"Not if you keep asking," the driver said.

"Can't wait to get back to base is all, Mike."

"Tell me bout it. I could use a cold one ri--"

A plume of smoke rose in a mushroom five yards ahead. Jeremy felt a punch in his innards as the shockwave hit a split second later. The cloud of dust seemed to eat the vehicle ahead of them. Gunshots rang as the sand and smoke coalesced to form a brown cloud of death. A rain of debris peppered their vehicle. Jeremy couldn't tell if it was rocks or bullets hitting their truck.

"Shit! Go! Go! Go! Go!"

Mike jammed the accelerator, praying that he wouldn't ram into the vehicle ahead and end up stuck in the kill zone. When he managed to clear ten yards, he prayed that the guys ahead made it out alive. He knew the driver and his children, even broke bread with them in Ohio once.

"We gotta make sure they're alright," Jeremy said, but before they could make sense of the situation, another blast went off to their left. It wasn't a direct hit, but it was as if God himself came down and thwacked their truck with a newspaper. It teetered over the tipping point, and Jeremy felt the truck's equilibrium shift in slow motion.

Metal crunched on dirt, and Jeremy turned to see the driver falling on top of him. He grunted as his right shoulder bore the brunt of the impact. Pain seared through his shoulder and neck, but there was no time to think. "Out! Out! Out!" Jeremy slapped Mike on his helmet repeatedly.

Mike shoved the door open like a trapdoor. He clambered out and jumped roof side for cover. The dust was so thick that it blocked off the sun where he stood. The only reliable sense left was his hearing, and judging from the gunshots, it would probably be the last sense he'll get to use. Jeremy jumped down beside him.

"You alright man?" Jeremy asked.

"I'm fine, we gotta call for--" Mike's helmet flew off along with part of his skull. He dropped so fast that Jeremy was still waiting for him to complete his sentence.

"Fuck!" The dust cleared a little and Jeremy made out two silhouettes in the distance. Jeremy opened fire. One of the shapes fell, while the other ran for cover. The figure seemed to run back out, screaming. Jeremy squeezed the trigger, spraying the target with a burst of lead. It fell down but didn't die. It dragged itself towards the body.

Jeremy's extremities were numb, but his skin was hot, and he could feel acid in place of blood in his veins. Another figure broke cover, but Jeremy could tell its lack of training in marksmanship. When he looked carefully, though, he realised why. 

The boy aiming the gun at him was barely older than his son. No time to think. Jeremy put two shots into the boy's heart, and trained his sights back on the crawling figure. It was hugging the body, and let loud a wail that killed any last semblance Jeremy had of a soul.

He looked carefully and saw a woman crying over a boy. Did I just--

Insurgents closed in from every direction, taking potshots at him with their AK-47s. Jeremy did a quick count, then sighed. He dropped his rifle. He had many regrets in life, but his biggest one that day was not telling his wife that he loved her. He regretted the silly argument they had on Skype that morning, which now seemed like the most trivial thing on earth, in the grand scope of things.

The men screamed orders at him as they neared. Jeremy recalled the mangled bodies he recovered from search and rescue missions. Missing body parts were a sign of  the suffering they had to endure before their death. He also remembered how prisoners of war were beheaded with combat knives, and wanted no part of that. 

He drew his pistol and whispered his last goodbye to his wife and son. He shoved the barrel into his mouth, but other bullets found him before he could pull the trigger. He slumped, knelt, and became another statistic in the Iraq war.

***

Ethan finally passed the worst part of traffic. From that point onwards it'd be smooth sailing all the way to his office. One day. One day I'll get a job that's closer to home. Then I wouldn't need to bother with all these jams.

"A growing number of malaria cases in Giyani and Phalaborwa sparked an outbreak threat in those regions."

Or I could work from home. No need to commute, even better.

"About 250 deaths have been reported, and the death toll is on the rise."

***

The boy sat beside his father, the old man's breath coming and going in short spurts. The boy's tears dotted his father's chest. He had slept beside his father for two days now, only stopping to drink after he'd fed his father some water. The father was too sick to take in anything else. Water was scarce in Giyani, and since the incident, food looked to be short in supply as well.

Mom died last week, and she was buried in their backyard with only a stick and a few pieces of stone to mark where she lay. At first it was a fever. Then her joints hurt. One day, she couldn't get up from bed, and was flashing in and out of consciousness, and her skin was hot enough to boil an egg on. They did not have the money for medical expenses, so father and son watched her slowly die.

Then daddy got sick, and the horror was repeating itself all over again. The boy had to walk an hour's hike--one way--to get enough water for their daily needs. His dad couldn't work, and the trip to the market was three times farther than water, so the boy had to stomach stale bread for the past three days. It's not that bad. If daddy gets well again, I won't mind eating stale bread for the rest of my life.

In between his laboured breaths, the father would whisper "Boy... my boy," and all the boy could do was hug his father tighter. The boy had no one to go to for help. He knew nobody in the village, and in his arms lay everything he had left in his life.

After days of struggle, the wrought look on his father's face turned to one of acceptance. He looked at the boy and smiled. 

"I... love...," he said, and let out a mix between a groan and a sigh. The boy saw a glazed hue take over his father's eyes as he made the transition from life to death. His father's face remained the same, but was different at the same time.

"Daddy?" the boy called out. "Daddy? Daddeeeeee," as he sobbed the night away in his father's breast.

***

Ethan finally pulled into his office car-park.

"It is the seventh day of search operations and there still is no sign of the missing pl--"

The radio cut off as abruptly as Ethan parked and killed the engine. Such boring news on the radio these days.

As the automated doors opened, cold air emerged to give him respite from the heat. He gulped a mouthful of water from the water fountain and proceeded over to his cubicle.

"My life sucks," he muttered. "Nothing could be worse than this."

A vampire story: The beginning

So my friend loves the werewolves-n-vampires genre, and instead of laughing at her like real friends do, I decided to try my hand at it. This one's for you, Jelly! 

***

David walked along a mud-filled path in between torn buildings. Civilisation was in ruins, propagated by a scientist with a cure for the common cold. The powers that be decided that the loss of pharmaceutical sales wouldn't do, and they conceived an equally resistant virus. It worked too well, causing the death of humankind, and the reanimation of the said dead. The remaining pockets of survivors lived in a lawless world, scavenging and killing each other for the needs of their own.

Zombies were David's last concern that night. After all, he was a distant relative himself. The walkers ignored him in lieu of choice human flesh. David was preoccupied with another fear, one that he had to face every night. As he hugged his cloak tighter and quickened his pace, he noticed a body up ahead. A couple of walkers gave it a curious glance, and shambled along, which is how real zombies commute, unlike track and field athletes like World War Z or Resident Evil would lead you to believe.

"He-hello?" David said.

The body sniffled in reply, so David gave it a kick.

"Ow," it jerked, but made no further effort of small talk.

David looked at the figure. It was clad only in underwear, and looked fairly human. Walkers tend to be distinguishable by their hanging entrails or rotting limbs.

"What are you?" David asked.

"Human, undead, what does it even matter. I might as well be dead," the body said.

"Well, the walkers didn't take a liking for you, so you might very well be."

The figure sighed and sat up. David stepped back.

"N-no sudden moves now."

The thing looked at David for a moment, then snorted. It got up and said, "Well, nice knowing you. I'm gonna look for food now."

It had been years since David last talked to somebody that the sound of his own voice seemed queer. Humans seldom roam at night, and they generally avoid everyone else. Walkers, on the other hand, are abundant, but are not exactly the type to comment on the weather, or their stance in politics. He missed the days when humans were humans, and he could mingle with the population and none would be any wiser. He missed watching his friends die through the generations while he remained young. He missed company.

"Wait!" David called out. "I know a shelter. It has great food, I mean if you don't mind canned food..."

"I'm pretty sure they have a stockpile in the mart."

"There's alcohol too."

The unidentified body paused in between steps. "Booze, eh?"

Back when the looting began, the homeless spearheaded the first phase. Addicts started robbing liquor stores, pubs and convenient stores en masse, and by the time the real robbing began, it was easier to find a 24-karat diamond than a bottle of beer.

"Okay fine. Let's go. I'm Jon, by the way."

They walked a few minutes in silence before David turned to Jon. "Um, Jon, is it? Would you care for some clothes before we go?"

Jon looked down and shrugged. "Doesn't matter. They all come off in the end."

***

They approached the shelter and Jon yanked the trapdoor open. It was an underground tornado shelter with steps leading into black nothingness. Jon was halfway into the shelter before he looked back and asked if David was coming.

"J-just a moment," David said. He fumbled inside his cloak pockets and produced a flashlight. He turned it on and lit the hollowness below.

Jon rolled his eyes. "I thought you were a vampire."

"I... am... vampire," David said, perhaps a little to dramatically.

"So," replied Jon, "you're afraid of the dark?"

"Me? Pshh. Us vampires... we're nocturnal. You know that, right?"

Jon stared at David and said nothing.

"Well... okay maybe just a little," David said.

Silence.

"Okay fine I'm terrified of the dark."

Jon covered his mouth and tried to suffocate a giggle.

"What about you, mister underwear? Mister oh-woe-unto-me vampire, huh?"

"I'm no vampire."

"Well if you're not human, and you're not a vamp--"

"Quiet."

"I'll say whatever I damn well pl--"

"Shh! You hear that?"

David listened to the silence. "Hear what?" he asked.

"We need to hide. Quick, shut the door."

They stumbled into the shelter and pulled the door shut above them. Jon snatched the torch and turned it off, leaving them to bathe in darkness. David panicked and rummaged Jon for his torch. "Give it back!"

It wasn't long before footsteps pattered outside. "I'm pretty sure I saw light moving," a voice said.

As David wrenched the flashlight free, it slipped out of his fingers and clattered down the steps. Jon smacked David upside the head.

"You heard that?" a second voice said. "It's coming from inside there. Might be walkers. Fetch the grenades."

"No, wait!" David shouted. "We're not walkers! No need for the grenades!"

"Ah," the second voice said. "A human. Get me the shotgun."

"Really?" Jon whispered. "Seriously, David?"

The doors opened and the barrel of a shotgun peered down at them. Five men stood outside, some wearing grins, the others wearing makeshift weapons of sorts. David spotted one of them brandishing a golf club.

"Lookey here," the guy with the first voice said. "Must've been doing the dirty down there."

David looked at himself, then at Jon in his underwear. "This isn't what it looks li--oof," one of the men fed David the stock of a shotgun.

"We got use for people like you," the man with the second voice said. "Tie 'em up and put 'em to work first thing in the morning. Break their knees if they won't."

They were dragged back to camp among David's whimpers. The trek was short, punctuated by gunshots aimed at walkers. As they arrived at camp, they were chained to a tree outside the entrance.

"Get some rest, girls." said the man with the second voice. "You got a long day ahead of you tomorrow. That is, if the walkers don't get you first."

A horrific realisation struck David as he sat bound against the tree. It wasn't the walkers or what the humans had planned for him. He was worried about sunrise, because come dawn, he'll be nothing but bones and dust.

The circle of love

This is the first time ever I've ever posted a first draft. Happy Valentine's.

***

She was walking down the path with her head down. In a place like this, time was insubstantial, physical boundaries were a dream, and all that mattered was the presence of another person sharing your space.

He saw her from afar, noticing her light brown hair that he always liked on a woman. He walked up to her from behind and spoke to her with wavered confidence.

"Hi ... " His eyes were beaded with awe of her presence, his dilated pupils betrayed his feigned casualness. "What's a girl like you doing here?"

"Nothing."

She looked at him and smiled.

"Wanna walk with me?" he said.

"Sure."

They paced a reasonable distance. With each step, he worked up the courage to hold her hand. It took longer than both parties would have liked.

He pointed at a building that had many windows. "I used to work there," he said.

"Oh."

As his hand fell, it grazed hers, and sensing her comfort, he took it in his.

She smiled and gave him a kiss.

"Here," she said. "let me show you what it is to be loved."

He looked at his feet, feeling hot in his cheeks.

They walked on, growing familiar with each step. Occasionally, he'd pick her up and spin her around, and she'd laugh and all his troubles will go away. She's the one, he said to himself.

They walked through stormy weather, they walked through sunshine. They walked through autumn leaves and what spring had in mind. Sometimes she'd keep quiet, sometimes he'd talk back. Sometimes the both of them thought that it was all a drag.

"I think I need to walk alone," she would whisper, and he'd fall back, giving her the space she needed.

Still, they'd walk together, and he'd catch up again.

"Hey there," he'd smile, and she'd do the same.

Both of them would continue on this journey, until she'd fall behind, little by little, and finally halt to a stop at a crossing. He'd look back and say, "Aren't you coming?"

She would stare at the crossroads, and then she would look at him. "I'm afraid not."

"Please," he'd say. "Don't go."

"I'm sorry," and she would walk on, leaving them both to walk their own paths.

Why? he'd often wonder. We were meant for each other. He would walk, and walk, and not find an answer. He would try to be strong, wondering if he'd done anything wrong. Was it something he lacked? Should he have doubled back?

He walked on, and suddenly from behind, someone called out to him.

"Hi," a blonde girl, beady eyed, said to him. He still preferred brunettes. "Watcha doin?"

"Nothing."

They walked together for a distance before she pushed him onto the side walk.

"Look! There's a nice dress," she'd say as she pointed at a store's window. As her hands fell, she would brush against his, and take his hand.

He smiled. She deserves to know the meaning of joy.

"Here," he said. "Let me show you happiness." She blushed.

They walked together, sharing stories and hugs and kisses. They reached a street where the junctures linked to a spot in the ground.

She looked back and asked, "Aren't you coming?"

He looked at her and understood. He saw the whole picture now. "I have to go now. You'll be fine."

"Please," she said. "Don't go."

He knew that his departure was the only way for her to realise the circle of love. He would have loved to stay.

"I'm sorry," he said, as he turned onto another path.

Tears streaked her face, and she looked at her feet and remained on her journey. She doesn't know it yet, but it wouldn't be long before footsteps followed her, and she'd hear someone say:

"Hi."

A ghost story

Another fiction piece. It makes my job easier if you read this alone in the dark. Do let me know if you enjoyed it!

***

This is not a ghost story. I merely played an extra in this tale. At least that's what I try to believe. In reality, I keep my eyes open at night, hoping 'she' never took an interest in me. Every time I wait for sleep, I try to dismiss the thought of it being in the room with me, staring from the corner of my bed.

***

There is a certain joy found in doing what you love. Time passes by quicker—those holding vocations on either end of the happiness spectrum will concur with Einstein's relativity theory—and you take up tasks that other people shun, in my instance, proofreading. One night, after finishing my third bout of editing, I looked up at the clock to see both its hands almost aligned upwards.

Great.

I have a pretty wild imagination, so when I finally realised my solitude, everything took on a sinister tinge. The copier looked as though it was staring at me. The air-conditioner hummed far louder than I would have liked, and the lights seemed dimmer than their proposed wattages.

I already had the office keys in hand when I stood beside the light switches. I remember a picture of Muhammad Ali I saw once. He was younger, his hair squarer, his left arm extended out in a jab, and below him, a caption. It read: I'm so fast, last night when I was turning off the lights, I hit the switch and was in bed before the room was dark.

I hit the switch and I floated like a butterfly, stung like a bee. Within what felt like two seconds, the doors were locked and I was waiting for the elevator. That was phase one. Phase two involved leaving the building. I was on the eighth floor, so that meant a reasonable amount of elevator commute. I stepped in the elevator and shifted uneasily from one foot to another as it made its descent.

Then it stopped.

I was at the seventh floor, and the doors opened, leaving me to look out into the darkness, the only hint of light coming from the outline of the stairwell door. I felt a sudden shiver, and in that moment, learned the true definition of eerie. The doors closed and I sighed with relief. A sudden mixture of jasmine and death accompanied my next breath.

The lift made its way down again. The temperature seemed to have dropped a little. I took out my phone as a comfort gesture. Not that it would have helped. There was no reception. I scrolled around in the menu as the lift descended. It stopped again on the third floor.

Not again damn it.

I was pressing the close button before the doors even opened.

Someone was standing outside. Finally. No more twilight zone for me. He stood aside as he stretched out his hand to hold the door, and smiled at that general direction. I knew he wasn't smiling at me because I was cowering behind the buttons. Then he came in, made eye contact with me, and said, "Weird hour, huh?"

I didn't know what he meant, so I just smiled. I tried to ride through the awkwardness by feigning interest in my phone. But three floors was a long time to spend in curiosity, so I broke the silence.

"So... what are you doing here this late?"

"Oh, it's year end for most companies, right? So it's when we have the most work," he said.

As we walked to the car park, I learned that he worked late most days. It was part of his job. I didn't ask where he stayed, what industry he was in, and the most important question, who the hell was he smiling at?

***

It was a month before I saw him again. He was loitering around the parking lot after work. He had eye bags you could fit a month's worth of clothes into.

"Hey," I said. "Where have you been?"

He looked around to see if anyone was listening. Then, "You. It's you."

"Yeah, me! How you doing?"

"I'm leaving this place. I'm quitting soon."

"What? Why?"

He started in a hush, "I went out with the guys on sixth floor."

"The law firm? Wait, I don't get it. So you're quitting because..."

"I went out with them. I did. She was there. I went up to find my friend after work. We walked in the elevator, she was there."

"Who?" A slight tingle in my spine.

"See? I knew it. You didn't see her, did you? My friend didn't see her too. Acted like nobody was around. But she was there."

"Wait, chill. You saw a woman when we first met?"

He looked at me, contemplating if he should go on. "I'm not crazy."

"It's not what I'm saying, but dude, what lady?"

"You just have to believe me. She was behind him, just staring at me. Staring from over his shoulder. She was there. I saw her."

"Okay, and you're resigning because of this... thing?"

"We reached the ground floor, we were walking to the car. I thought she'd ride the elevator back up... but she stuck her hand out, and started walking out. Following me. She was following me. I ran. I ran to my car. Just went home, left my friend behind."

"Okay dude, you're freaking me out."

He lit a cigarette as he stared into space. "I can't stay home, but I don't wanna work here anymore," he said through an exhale of smoke. "I'm saving up. Going away as far as I can."

He took another drag. His lips started to quiver. "But the real fucked up thing... the real fucked up part is... sometimes I see her—it, outside my house. I never see her in the elevator anymore."

I've heard enough. It was time to take my leave. My skin vibrated like a tuning fork. "Well, I gotta go. Um... you take care. Don't think so much, alright?" I was already walking to my car.

Whether or not he murmured farewells or breathed a shuddered whine, I'll never know. The last image I had of him was his eyes staring into space, as curls of burnt tobacco swirled out of the ember of ashes that grew as long as fake fingernails.

I never saw him since.

Six months later, the incident lost its urgency and started slipping into the back of my mind. But one night, I found myself working late again.

The lift stopped again. On the seventh floor. I stared out into the darkness and my previous definition of eerie compounded with interest. Jasmine and death mingled in the air. I smelled this before. As I looked for the close button, a horror overtook me as the numbers lit up one by one. I rammed through the closing doors, not caring if I'd lose a limb at that point. I shoved the stairwell door and ran down, four steps at a time, hoping that my legs sought purchase instead of me ending up with a broken ankle.

I made it home that night, but I never managed to shake it off. Unlike my previous acquaintance, I wasn't able to see her, and until today, whenever I turn off my lights at night, I wonder if it really followed me home, or if I was just an extra in this tale.

The heartbreak

Foreword: While I typically blog about true accounts of my life, this piece is more fiction than reality. Some situations are drawn from personal experience, but are very loosely based on actual events. Don't mind me, I'm just easing my way into short story and fiction writing.

***

"Sometimes love just isn't enough."

I can't say I didn't see it coming. The late nights wondering what time she'd come home, that same BMW X5 always dropping her off a few doors down, the increasing frequency of plans with her 'secondary school friends', and her sudden keeping me at arm's length. I felt like I ordered a breakup package and that the delivery was due.

I wasn't entirely sure, but I attributed our downfall to my career change. When I realised I didn't want to work weekends and public holidays anymore, I went back to school and got an education. That meant starting from scratch once I graduated. That also meant having a junior's wage at a manager's age. That's when she started slipping away. It couldn't have been a coincidence. At least that's what I told myself when I sought comfort.

"I really don't see a future together," she said. "I'm not saying I'm breaking up with you. I'm just scared, you know. All my friends are getting married, and you're just getting started."

"You gotta give me time, babe. I've gotta work my way up. Wait. Don't tell me it's about money."

"It's not. I'm sorry. I'm just confused. I feel that... you know... sometimes love just isn't enough."

I couldn't find a place to sit down, so I brushed against the wall as my legs gave way into a squat.

"That's not fair," I said. "Not fair."

"I'm sorry. Just give me time to think."

"Could we at least talk face-to-face?"

"There's nothing to talk about. I just need some space."

"But I want to see you..."

"I'm sorry."

The coldness in her voice dug a hollow pit in my chest. In what seemed like a flip of a switch, I've turned from somebody who shared an intimate space with her, to a nobody.

"Kay... bye."

"I'm sor—"

I hung up. I just couldn't stand to hear another apology. It served an adverse purpose in that situation.

I let a week pass between us. During that time, I resorted to exercise and meditation to help ease the symptoms of heartbreak, but found it uncomfortable sitting on marble for twenty minutes at a time. I finally decided that I needed my yoga mat (and a bunch of clothes) back. I picked up the phone and called her.

No answer.

I tried again half an hour later. Still nothing.

I sent a message: "Hey, you home?"

Before I even put down my phone, her message came in: "No."

I felt a slight resentment build up inside. Maybe slight was an understatement. My body felt hot and I was gritting my teeth. My fists were clenched and I felt like puking. I never knew I had relinquished so much emotional power over to her.

So she was on her phone but wouldn't pick up or return my calls. Fine. I was tired of staying in the grey confines of our relationship. I decided that I had to instil some finality into our plight. I would pack all my stuff and leave her house keys on the table. The fact that she wasn't home made it easier. I didn't have the strength to see her and not break down anyway. Then, I'd move on. If I was lucky.

It was dark when I arrived at her place. I opened the door and started upstairs to our room. I stumbled on a rag cloth and nearly fell down the stairs. Strange. It was unlike her to be this messy.

As I reached the second floor, I noticed a sliver of light from under the door. It was really weird that she'd leave things around and forget to turn off the lights. I opened the door and walked in.

Now, up to that point in life, there was only one look that I've ever felt gutted about. It was the look on my parents face when I said something bad during a row with them. That night, I added another one to the list. The mixture of anger, distance, and guilt when she realised it was me.

"What are you doing here?!"

"I wanted to pack—"

Then I realised the amount of skin showing.

And the other guy in the room.

"—the fuck. You kn—you know what? Fuck you!"

I stormed out of the room in between her yells and mine.

I hammered the light switch on the way down and fluorescent illuminated what I tripped on earlier. It was his clothes. I kicked the pair of pants out of the way and it flung down across the hall.

"I just knew it! I knew it! Fuck you! Fuck that guy, fuck you!" It's funny how you lose all lingual faculties when you're angry, but the obscenities stay perfectly intact. Somehow, I managed to snag my yoga mat on the way out.

I slammed the front door and barely made it to the car before my face was drenched in tears. This was the person I envisioned spending the rest of my life with. This was who I gave my heart to. How naive. As I burned rubber on asphalt, I noticed what I missed before. The BMW was parked across the street in front of an unoccupied house.

I imagined her screaming "We were on a break!" like Ross, and was simultaneously laughing and crying on the way home. I had officially lost my marbles. The night was spent riding waves of discomfort, how someone who'd drank too much and had no choice but to rough it out would.

The next day, I walked into my boss' office.

"Morning! You okay? What's wrong with your eyes?"

"I'm quitting."

"What? Why?"

We spent the next hour talking about my decision, and instead of the usual month's notice, he agreed to let me go within a week.

When the week ended, I scrounged all my savings, packed my bags, and bought a one way ticket to Phuket, not knowing what the future held. Being alone with my thoughts, I began to accept myself, started to enjoy my own company, and I learned how to smile again. Cue Arcade Fire's Wake Up here.

The universe worked in my favour and I secured a job I loved that paid better upon returning one month later, and I lived happily ever after.

Well... not quite.

A couple of months after that incident, I received a call. I've deleted her number, but I remember all my ex's digits by heart. I've tried to blank her out as much as I could, but as I made out the number on my phone, my heart still skipped a couple beats. I took and deep breath and answered.

"Yeah?"

"Hey... it's me."

"Sup?"

"Nothing actually... just wondering if you're free tonight."

"What for?"

"Talk, maybe."

"Nah, I've got things to do."

"Okay... maybe I could pass you back your clothes?"

"You can have them."

"Maybe we could meet up sometime?"

"Kinda busy with the new job."

"At least talk to me for a while?"

"We're talking."

We exchanged small talk, which meant her asking the questions and me giving two-worded answers. I didn't want to know anything about her life for fear of reopening an old wound. Well, technically I was still bleeding, but I digress.

"I've been thinking... I've been a terrible girlfriend. I shouldn't have said the things I said, did the things I did. Lately, I've come to realise that I've taken you for granted... that the person I really want to be with is you."

A wave engulfed my body. Another jolt of the heart.

"Hello?"

"Yeah, I'm here."

"Well yeah... it's all I wanted to say. I realise that I love you, and I'm sorry. Maybe..." she trailed off. "Maybe we could work things out?"

Hearing that was like having the first cup of water after being lost and found in the Sahara. It took me a second to believe what I just heard. I've fantasised about our reconciliation so much that I didn't know what to do when the opportunity came. As much as I knew that my feelings for her would never go away, I also knew that I needed someone who'd stick with me through thick and thin.

Every fibre of my being tried to stop me, but it was time to rip the band-aid and start living life again. My heart tried to cut off my verbal circuitry, but I managed to overcome the agony of my decision and said:

"I guess sometimes love just isn't enough."