#(sorryyyy)

It’s been eight months, sevendays and twenty-one hours since the two of you broke up. But why bother counting—instead, it should’ve been considered good riddance on his part.

He should’ve seen this coming, or rather, the both of you did see this coming, but alas, there’s no use of mending what’s truly broken. Like shattered glass, he’d only get injured in the process.

He should move on. You were an experience, a fine one in his eyes, but as the saying goes, all good things come to an end.

Or so he thought. A spark, once so bright, and something he considered had passed once again blazes brighter than it ever did—stronger, with reverence and this time, the determination he displayed in the field, if not more.

With his new found resolve, where logic and emotion clicked, he’d finally caught up with what he’d been avoiding for his own sake—the sick, bitter truth he reduced to face in the eye.

Because he knew he’d crumble in an instant if he ever came to terms with it.

You’re not yourself—is something that he realizes after a while. When he means a while is the eight months, seve days and twenty-one hours and maybe twenty-two minutes. But hey, why’s he counting?

Sure, he’s seen some slight twitches but surely, surely you’d go back to how you always were; sweet and perfectly human—you provided the emotional aspect he lacked. It was balanced, atleast in his eyes.

But very much to his dismay, it appears he’s pushed you to the brink of your own demise. Because of him, he's left with nothing but a husk of who you were.

It killed him to go home. He remembers when he’d gulp down all the worries that had unfortunately crept up and confirmed themselves.

But rather, having to see what you’ve became because of him.

Aching and sore from training, there’s nothing more that appeases him than just seeing you waiting by the door, a warm smile that he swears gives him a tinge of energy—even on days where he doesn’t deserve it, you still act sickeningly tender with him.

By then, he’s greeted with nothing but the back of your sleeping form in your shared bed. At times you are awake, you brush him off with a quick wave and some half-assed smile that never reaches your smile if he’s lucky.

Some days are worse than most—sure, maybe he does end up letting his own frustration soil and murk what pure feelings he has for you. Too enwrapped by his own stress to notice how you felt.

And all he’s done is brush it aside, because surely, you’ll be fine by tomorrow then.

How wrong he was; look where he is now because of his so called genius. Trapped within the luxurious apartment complex above Madrid’s beautiful sea of lights and yet, the only person he truly considered his solace wasn’t here with him to admire the sight.

Even by then, he’d only be admiring you. He finally admits that yes, he was utterly enamoured by you. But then again, how can he ever take you back?

The painful recollection of slump of your shoulders when he decides to walk past you rather than to fall into your loving arms. How your voice falters when he responds sharper than he should—all these quirks, something he should’ve noticed, something he should’ve fixed.

The worse one is probably when you stopped seeking his presence in bed. You’d always been a sucker for physical closeness—of course he’d know that, considering that you always had your hand latched onto something of his.

Though ever since, you’ve started sleeping strictly at your part of the bed.

When the two of you went out, you’d immediately grab his hand, maybe tug his sleeve if you felt lazy to reach his. And heaven forbid how much you slobbered yourself over him when he had a free moment.

But by then, you were nothing but a phantom in your own home. Instead, you inch farther, made yourself seem smaller, invisible even. Parting before the ugly.

And that’s when he finally picked up on it. Just now of all days. The realization isn’t how those rom-coms display it; loud, unnecessarily dramatic. Unlike those, the actuality occurs in a sense of shunning silence, to a point where he can’t hear his own monologue.

But to Sae, who’d been used to hearing your cheerful voice about whatever would soothe him, a calming balm to his internal lunacy;

“I saw a teal crystal on my feed. It reminded me of your eyes!” you’d beam.

“You think we should get a cat? You act like one anyways, it can keep me company while you’re busy.” you’d ask.

“We should go to this cafe! I made sure to check the menu, they had that tea you liked!” you’d smile at him.

“Why’d you go to practice? It’s raining and you could’ve gotten sick! And no, I don’t care if you could’ve just practiced indoors, damn it!” you’d nag him.

Now all he hears is the white noise of trickling rain against the window. How ironic, he thinks, how the rain only appears by the time he’s readying himself to whatever turmoil he’ll experience.

Maybe this is what they meant by delayed mourning.

The soft drizzle is what would’ve caused him to go home early, and by then, you would’ve told him about it. Would’ve been the most interesting highlight of this tepid day—if you were still here, that is.

The realization that you were the only thing that grounded him. The warmth along with the almost endless love you gave. How selfish he’d been, so much that he couldn’t value what he had, what you had.

Though, then again, what could he do?

You left. The memory marks itself at the back of his head, a reminder of what he’s lost.

You packed every bit of love you had to give and left him— the apartment is back to its minimalistic, dull and lifeless glory. A blank slate that he couldn’t customize even if he wanted to. No matter the amount of color, decorations or whatever clutter could ever replace the homely vibe you gave it.

He remembers your last words. Something along the lines of “I’m sorry.” was it? Just how ice glazes over, it’s blurry. The only shards he can grasp is your sillhoute, lingering and giving him one last smile before the door closes.

He thought you left by then.

Though, you paused afterwards; just a few minutes, maybe hoping to see him chasing after you—but alas, you thought you expected too much and then, with a sigh, you left.

Now all he can do is stare back at the sour memory, reminiscing and sizing everything he could’ve done to make you stay—to at least look his way, because nowadays, just scrolling by your posts on his feed was enough.

Because if it meant going back to you, he’d ruin what happiness you had left after him. That meant having to be the cause of your sadness. And of course, he wouldn’t want that for you.

Sure, he is selfish, but not to such a degree. If having to witness fragments of your happiness meant having to watch from the side, then so be it.

If you want to come back, he won’t hesitate to welcome you with open arms, to get a grasp of your body and never let go.

Gosh, he misses you. He shifts, uncomfortably as he runs a hand down his scalp—hell, he even started wearing his bangs down out of habit.

Poor, poor Sae. Doesn’t matter though—it’s his fault anyways!