Maybe, I was never meant to stay.
Especially, when you wanted me to. I have always been interested in walking, running, and chasing memories out of everyone. The distance to me is minimal yet it seems like a walk of a lifetime, for every step you take towards me, I take a step back.
We are in a loop and no stars in the sky will fall into our constellation.
It still hurts that I left and you could do nothing about it. It still does. In my serene days and in my senile nights. Every time, there is a whisper or an echo of your name, I am crushed beneath the pain of guilt. The idea of staying intrigues me, and you know this. You know it that one day I will stop running and settle down. Make a home out of the hotel rooms.
I remember your smile and your frown. Your white sandals as you slipped your feet into them and the fringes of your hair with the wind cutting through your hair. What must have hurt is that we talked about me leaving. And I laughed. I laughed to cover the smell of pain I would leave behind.
And you could do nothing when I left.
It was a choice I made. I always looked back, and you were there, your hands buried between your palms. I wanted to come back, hold your hand and tell you all the promises again. But I knew I would break them again.
I liked three sugar cubes in my coffee. You wouldn’t know the reason, and I cannot risk to tell you my secret of sanity. So I always said: “I just like it that way.” Every single time.
There is so much you would never know about me.
What I did to keep myself sane.
Why stars spoke to me about their loneliness, why the fields cried out to caresses my feet, why the thorns thirsted for blood, why laughs after 3 AM were of sadness that would follow, why I couldn’t continue another day at 7 PM, why I never followed your footsteps to develop attachment, why people who broke me were broken too, why the sunrise always reminded me of suffering, why I hid from its raw truth, why I was scared of being alone with myself, and leaving without painful goodbyes and why I always preferred three sugar cubes in my coffee to poison the bitterness in me. Three, every time.
Maybe, you would never understand me. Maybe, you would have understood the galaxies inside me, and made a home in there.
Maybe, I was an open book but in a language stranger to you.
Maybe, if you would have asked me to stay, I would have stayed.