depression2

personal blog: simon

we pass the minuscule café ‘Jargon’ and a family-owned electronic repair store before Kevin speaks again, “remember how we used to sneak around, kissing in the narrow paths between the shops… like teenagers in forbidden love.” his mouth curls making mockery of ‘forbidden’ and ‘love’.

the thrill, the spice of the first few weeks of our ‘relationship’, if I even would call it a relationship. more like a childish fixation and I never would have thought that Kevin would invest in me. “yeah.” another meek reply, as my resignation however has been long brewing. the resignation of cheap thrills, hookups, pretenses, shallowness, and manifestation of that ‘spark’ that young talk about… and the true, meaningful, and raw words of actual real relationship never fashioned… and I know my Jacob addiction years ago bordered on nothing different. I followed Jacob everywhere like a displaced puppy.

“best sushi in town.” Kevin mouths it out like one of those advertising voices, but it’s a locale we have visited many times. two orders of bubble tea and platter of sashimi, our favourite order. the tapioca white and black pearls, as I usually sit avoiding the food and examining the soup and salad menu. with that recollection I grin at Kevin faintly. “you’re quieter than usual.” he adds somewhat between an observation and a question.

“tired.” my go-to answer.

“I’m trying.” an indication for my lack of tuning into Kevin’s attempt at a conversation, and he has been trying. I can hear it in his voice, the fear of the unknown, the fear of not knowing what might set me off but I guess he had to finally ask, “what’s going on with us?”

the hassle to deal with another emotional turmoil, another argument, another slammed door, a burden I cannot longer uphold. my unhappiness is unraveling and it has for a long time and I don’t feel like arguing as my headache becomes a timed grenade, “let’s just go home,” I moan because that is all I am able to give and detach from the conversation.

Kevin halts, firmly knitting his fingers into my shirt, I guess making sure I don’t make a run for it, and measures me, “are we okay?”

the familiar play. Kevin’s preoccupation with my happiness, with us. his enthusiasm for life. but I’m only fading. my eyes form to of an equal stern yet gentle stare, something Kevin can battle with, as I give the last of my strength, “I don’t know.”

“I’m sorry.” he blurs it out as if time was of an essence, and I am not sure if he knows what he is even apologizing for. maybe it’s fear after all. my intermission of anger simply unfurls at the least expected moments, crowding me to a point of my eruption, and maybe Kevin doesn’t want to be a witness to it presently. “I’m sorry.” his grim expression only becomes equivalent to my pitiful look.

I nod and imitate half a grin.

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© simon whittle — second act