For forty-eight seconds every morning these days, Sarawat forgets.
The light streaming through his window changes — fogged, hazy, cloaked by rain; other times, sharpened by summer heat. Sparrows on the sill, fallen leaves on the eaves. His blanket — twisted tourniquets around his legs or a wrinkled mess on the floor; rarely, still draped softly over his body.
To his waking mind, the new world is dark, muffled, cocooned in black silk, unconsciousness slowly unwrapping itself from his body — right toes, then the left; calves, thighs, pelvis, chest; heart, arms, shoulders, throat.
His skin, dusted with fine hairs, stretches into the morning with calmness and utter ease. His heart beats blood to the tips of his fingers, pulsing back and forth in a four-count rhythm.
His body is eager to come out of the dream time and start again, every cell glitteringly, achingly alive, ready to greet the fresh sunlight. The world is hungry to welcome him back, beckons him with the promise of quicksilver in his blood, and his body wants to say yesyesyes.
The dark veil of sleep finally uncurls from his head, and Sarawat opens his eyes. The room is full of amber fire as the sun begins to rise, splaying fingers of light across his skin. Outside, he hears the faint rumblings of early morning drivers; doves cooing against the window, roosters crowing.
What he does not hear is anyone in the kitchen, the clinking of pans and mugs, the sharp whistle of a kettle. He does not hear the clicking of pale fingers against a computer's keyboard, nor the soft swish of blue silk and navy wool, nor the soft sounds of music being played.
When he remembers why, his hand begins to shake.
He's all alone.
____________________
"Who's the father?"
"Who do you think?"
The answer was there in her eyes. She didn't have to say it.
"I think it's not me."
____________________
Three days after, after their very public outburst in the middle of the street — you know, the one where she told him she was pregnant — he moves out.
He tells her to keep the house, to replace the haunted memories with beautiful ones. He doesn't want to stay in that house any longer. But wishes her all the best and nothing but happiness with her new family.
It didn't work out with them. They just weren't meant to be happy together.
Maybe that twenty-something hippie is going to make her happy.
* * *
The three days he spent packing swirled around him in a blur of sensations, flooding him with exhaustion.
He slept on the sofa, for the most part, dreamt of farewells — past, long past; planned, surprised; in haste, careful minutes measured, hours, days — that played in his head over and over in a loop. He never really recognised anyone, just chameleon characters — ally, adulterer, traitor, betrayer; friend, lover, wife, betrayer. Sometimes, though, he'd be forced to face fates, faces; unable to unbind, unhook, unlock from choices made, murdered, loved.
As a child, dreams were simpler, carefree. He remembered he often dreamt of the moon and stars, played spaceman, fashioning futuristic clothes out of tape and tin foil.
____________________
"I loved you ... once upon a time, XXX."
He kissed her cheek, then.
"Me too. There was a time when I thought we'd be together forever."
She sat on the couch with him, eyes never leaving his.
BINABASA MO ANG
Don't Leave Me
Fanfiction"I missed you. When you were gone I felt like dying. I couldn't smile. Couldn't live happily. I became the most miserable person in the world. I couldn't love anyone like I loved you. If people talked to me about fate, I'd laugh in their face. That...
