Assumptionista

I woke up with a head splitting headache.

A dim stream of light emanating from the lamppost contaminated my dark bedroom. Faint laughs of familiar voices violated my warm yet silent ambiance.

I closed my eyes again willing my mind and body to sleep.

I was neither tired nor restless. In fact, I have been in deep slumber all day.

I don’t wanna wake up.

Because waking up meant dealing with reality. A battle that I’m not sure would go my way.

After a while, I can no longer suspend it. With a soft sigh and a firm curse, I grabbed my pack of cigarette on my side table, lighted a stick while walking to the open window just in time for me to offer the rich nicotine-rich smoke to the night.

I started smoking again not because “he” does too. I smoking again during the time I met him was just a coincidence.

I peeped outside trying to keep myself busy. Trying to keep myself from not being idle but with each drag of smoke, my mind, which I try so hard to contain, wandered.

And treaded dangerous waters.

I desperately shook it off my mind by lighting another stick but to no avail.

I look back at my side table. Even in the darkness I can see my phones neatly placed right on it silently lying to each other side by side.

Silent.

They were silent the whole day. Not even a ring.

I’m a deep sleeper but when it comes to my phone I always get up and answer it. But still, I entertained the fact that maybe it did ring it’s just that it didn’t wake me up.

I hoped. That’s all I can do these days.

With a last puff, I dragged my feet slowly towards the table trying to delay the inevitable.

I grabbed the one in the middle, cradled it in my hand and pressed the home button.

“0” new message. “0” missed calls.

Same goes for my other two.

Acrid bile filled my mouth. It’s metallic taste adding more bitterness to my depression.

I hate it when I’m alone and depressed. It makes me think and analyze things.

And then assume.

And then analyze again.

Not knowing what he thinks or feels make me just believe on what I assume. And to a person who overanalyzes things. It’s a nightmare.

Fifteen minutes later I’m in my neighbour’s house drinking... trying to fill up the emptiness and the void left in me. 5 hours later, I’m drunk but still thinking... analyzing.

Back in my room, I’m lying on my bed, staring at my silver ceiling. The rays of the morning sun reflecting its shine on it, trying to comprehend his sudden coldness.

I can bear it no longer. I gave in.

I took my phone and composed a message. In my attempt to pour out my emotions, I sent this.