Happiness is a Warm Gun

I thought of you today—you who I don't know, have never spoken to, have never even seen in person. I thought of you because I had wrapped up a ring and almost six years of my life in an Ikea plastic bag, then shipped it back at her request like it was some common parcel devoid of meaning. As the rider sped away, I found myself shaking my head and thinking how you don't deserve this.

You deserve only the good days: the laughter and deep conversations in hotel bathtubs; the car rides to wherever and the movie nights staying in. You need to experience the love built on FaceTime calls and messages. You must live the joy of truly knowing her, not just a version of her she projects.

I hope you don't get the bad days: the fights that end with you silenced, the gaslighting that make you question if you truly experienced what you did, the control over what you wear and how your body should look, or even the dismissal of your feelings when you express discomfort over a roach infestation. These are things you shouldn't have to live through.

Most importantly, I hope you don't get the worst days: the "stop" that will later be coerced into "okay," the anxiety attacks when she subtly reminds you that it is your responsibility to ensure she doesn't look at someone else; then the blaming when she inevitably does—because you are not enough to sustain her attention. Those days will have you crying in office bathrooms wondering when all of it will end. And if it does end? I hope you don't have to be heartbroken at the denial of your truth just because it doesn't fit her narrative.

I say this with sisterly love: you need to have a ring that only ever belonged to you. You need to be with someone who gives meaning to symbols of love, not someone who treats those symbols as raw materials—hers to remelt and refashion into something sparkly over and over until someone doesn't leave. You need someone to look at you and see all of you, not just the parts of you that fill the voids she feels.

The other shoe will drop eventually. I hope this finds you sooner than six years after.

It is no secret that I, probably more than the average person, love love—its intricacies, its complications, its utter disregard for reason. I've fallen for complete strangers and close friends alike. At one point in my life, I've even convinced myself that having a sliver of love is better than having no one to come home to.

Love was something I chased until my lungs gave out.

Not too long ago, I found myself at the bottom of a pit I dug with my own hands—panting, bruised, with barely any fight left. There were so many voices pulling me in every possible direction. One spoke of regret and resentment, another pointed out the impossibility of climbing out, and one even whispered how scary it was to start over. I closed my eyes and held my breath, overwhelmed that at nearly 33 I once again found myself on the losing end of a battle I fought so long.

And then I heard her; her small voice carried above the noise. "I want to try again," she said—and all the other voices quieted. I nodded. I held her. We cried together. Yes, we will. It was not a question.

So here I am finally writing again, finally smiling again, finally singing and dancing again. Finally allowing myself to re-experience love in many forms. Finally reopening my Pinterest board and revisiting the idea of getting married in a Filipiniana gown. Finally talking to my imaginary children and allowing myself to imagine little Sining running to her grandparents after Saturday ballet class. Finally opening my heart to the possibility that I can be loved and claimed and kept the way I need.

It should’ve been easy… I think.

The moment your toothbrush hit the bottom of the garbage can, I flinched. It was not the finality—not exactly. It was the dull thunk that seemed to echo around my apartment, unceremonious and unassuming, that got me reaching for my phone to call my best friend.

“Can you come over?” I asked. She hung up and was at my door in fifteen minutes. I remember thinking then: “it should’ve been this easy, right?” To never have to explain why. To be understood wholly. To never have to shrink.

That everything could end like any other Thursday night felt mockingly holy.

I called the reason “mundane” as if shrinking myself one last time would make better sense. “It was just a halo-halo stand,” I said, smile on my face. I didn’t say that it was years of doing just this—making things that felt big to me seem small—that delivered the final sentence. And I was halfway out the door before any of it truly landed.

Now, our photos are in a pile set on fire. Who were we in them? I could tie each one to a memory that told me exactly who: tinders that could ignite, flames that were destructive. And I scatter our ashes over the tombstones of my past selves—the selves I now refuse to count as losses.

I didn’t burn. Not this time.

So I strolled by myself around the mall I used to walk around with your hand in mine. I rode the escalator without looking if you were just one step behind. I got in a car the same color as yours and thought “it should’ve been easy.”

Because it is. When it is true, it is. I know because it was easy for me to love you well even then. That it could only remain in the past is perhaps my only regret.