Tears for fears.
I cried and I cried last night.
I hate it when I cry because it reveals that I’m weak, that I’m fallible. It wrongly puts across the impression that I think my tears will evoke some sympathy from the other party. Maybe I’ve been spoilt that way by my previous relationships. I hate myself when I cry in front of him. With him, I can only be the smart, sexy, confident me, not the insecure, immature, and silly person that I really am.
Which was why it must have shocked him last night when I decided to stop controlling my sobs, and burst into tears. The loud, wailing kind. I behaved like a wilful child, but only because I’m tired of hiding my fears from him. In the wake of the full-on confrontation that we had in his bedroom last night, I decided that was the best time for him to really know me — take me or leave me. I said all I needed to say—and he probably did too—and now I feel like a huge boulder has been lifted off my back.
I know he really loves me. But a man will always be a man, and a woman will always be on guard. After all, it’s my heart he’s safekeeping. Anyone who has misplaced a treasured object many times before would be extra careful when they finally entrust it in another person’s care. Especially when you realise this person might be the last one you’re ever going to give your heart to.
She had meant the world to him even though things hadn’t worked out between them. It had been years since they were together but, just as there was a sliver of a chance of a reconciliation, I came into the picture. As her appearance at every of his friends’ meet-up sessions, and also at other, most inopportune times, gnawed at my guts, I started to think if, perhaps, I was the third party in this relationship.
Now that the small part of my mind has been cleansed of (most of) its dark inhabitants, I can spend more time doing what I should be doing: Getting used to this business of being absolutely in love.
Some of us think holding on makes us strong; but sometimes it is letting go.