Breakup

This is not my story.

This is a boy met girl story, but the last part.

I brought her to the restaurant where we first met. It’s silly but I feel like she belongs here, as if a property that I borrowed and now, I’m returning it.  I’m returning her.

She is wearing our couple’s shirt. She looks so happy as she is browsing over that cake catalogue. Those smiles, her giggles, I will miss them. But she could not hide from me how she is really feeling inside. She is pretending like she does not know. Or is it that she just really does not care? Well, a friend of hers approached me and told me things that she could not admit to me.

She is not my first girlfriend and this is not the first time that I am the one breaking up. But I wish she would just spit it out to my face. Please, tell me that you already know that I am seeing this other girl. Tell me that I broke my promise and I broke your trust. Tell me that I am a terrible person, a selfish, evil, and cheating liar. Shout at me. Course me. Tell me how disappointed you are to me. Tell me you deserve someone better. Then, walk out the door and never turn back.

It is easier that way.

While we were eating, I was trying to reflect on something: Be a gentle man till the end. No matter what happens, respect her. Tell her good things first before you break the news.

Then, I started to count...

10.

9. 

8. 

7.

6. 

5.

4.

3.

2.

1… 

I took a deep breath…

“I like to watch you eating. You look pretty even when you’re pigging out.” She looked at me, puzzled.

“You’re an amazing girl. There’s something in you that, well, makes me happy. Thank you for making me feel special.”

She bowed down her head. She seemed to know what’s coming.

“But I’m sorry... I think you deserve someone better.”

She took a spoonful of rice.

“Let’s end this.”

And took another bite of the chicken too.

She acted like she didn’t hear anything. I just let her be. But the silence is making me feel uneasy already. Please, say something.

“Rhea?”

I called her by her name. I’m sorry I can’t call you “Babe” anymore.

She looked at me. I didn’t see grudge or despise in her eyes. I see.. sadness. She took hold of her bag and left hastily.

I felt guilty but relieved.

********************************************************************************************************

I’m lying on my bed. It’s almost midnight. My phone wouldn’t stop ringing for almost an hour already. She keeps on calling me. I keep on ignoring her. I don’t know what to tell her. I mean, I don’t know how to tell her things without hurting her. But she needs an explanation. I know how frustrating it is when there is something you don’t understand—like something happens and you don’t know why.

“Hey,” I said. I refrain from calling her by her name. Or Babe.

I heard her sobs. As I expected, she is crying. This is the part that I wished I don’t have to witness.

She is laughing and crying at the same time. She tells me things but the only thing I can hear is her sobs.

We didn't talk about what happened at dinner. She didn’t even ask me “why”. It is as if nothing happened. Instead, we talked about movies, places, food, and even the Solar system.

Then, it’s past 1 am. I told her to sleep already. She wouldn’t. She asked me not to turn off the phone till she falls asleep.

Surely she understands that this could be our last phone call.

It’s almost 4 in the morning. Her crying subsided already. I can tell by the way she speaks that she’s tired and sleepy. But still, she wouldn’t sleep.

I know what she wants me to do. I know what she needs to hear.

“Goodnight, Babe. I love you.”

There was a short pause.

Then, she said, “Thank you.”