You know something, Ira? After you told me your secret, I couldn't help but feel disappointed. I wasn't jealous, in fact, I just felt the opposite. I felt the need to be compassionate towards you, yet the awful lingering feeling of being disheartened dwelled in my chest. It was like a throbbing pain; I could hear the stream of blood flow from my ears as my heartbeat became louder.
I remember the crisp details. I remember the way your disconsolate eyes seemed distant. Your jet black hair hid all your facial features when you looked down in shame.
At times like these, you seemed out of reach. There was always this invisible barrier between us that prevented us from ever getting intimate. At that moment, we both had our own share of secrets. We were well acquainted but not enough to break through the barrier that divided us. We were comfortable enough to walk together, to drink tea at my apartment, to stay and spend a few hours together, but never to expose our vulnerable selves.
Fear was what ate us and it was always fear that pushed us to this extent.
"Who is she?" I asked staring at your phone screen.
It was a beautiful photo of a young girl wearing a vintage dress. Her stunning features were highlighted by her warm and welcoming smile. The black and white photograph was old, and I couldn't distinguish any color of her physical traits.
"Her name was Rose."
You looked up, there were no traces of glossy eyes nor tear-stained cheeks. Your hands dug deep into your jean pockets as your stone face leaned towards the back of the chair.
"What happened to her?"
"She died." Ruthless and coldhearted- that's how you said those words. It was almost frightening having your intense stare trailing me. I felt like I was your prey. You were just waiting for the right moment to take me off guard.
I wanted this conversation to end. Your attitude and cold eyes belittled me to the point where I wanted to disappear.
Maybe it wasn't my place to say anything, maybe I felt entitled to ask, or maybe it was me who's being overreactive, but I was having second thoughts. Yeah, I was doubtful of you-you gave me mixed signals.
Loving you was never simple. Your love was always a test tube full of muddled emotions that burned my hands when it overflowed.
"I'm going to take a shower," I said. It didn't matter what you were about to say. The need to be alone was kicking in, and I didn't want to force you out of the apartment either.
Stripping myself bare, I begin to trace the outline of my body on the mirror. Maybe it was the pool of my sandy brown eyes that devoured me, but there was always something comforting about this.
Turning on the running water in the bathtub, I continued to stay there for the next hour. I would cup my hand and let the water run through my fingers as the cooling sensation liberated me. I was fascinated by dripping water rolling down my forearm.
A small giggle escaped my lips, the thought of a grown adult playing with water both amused and embarrassed me- it was exactly what I was doing.
I picked myself up, wrapped a towel tightly around my body, and barged out of the restroom.
I noticed you were relaxed sitting on the couch. Your head rested on the back as you cranked it so you could face the ceiling. Your closed eyes made you seem charismatic and alluring- almost mesmerizing.
Walking past you, I sat on my bed while I rested my chin on my knuckles.
"Who was she to you?"
Your eyes slowly opened, tired and restless. Knowing you couldn't avoid the question, you caved in. A sense of responsibility overcame you, and you opened your mouth to speak. "She was," you cleared your throat, " a past lover you could say."