Breaking up is easier than sticking together.
Breaking up is the clean way out when boredom make itself cosy in between you two.
Breaking up via text messages, but never face to face.
Even pretending there was nothing is easier than being honest to the person next to you and to yourself as well.
She's happy, but you're not.
She's angry, but you're relaxed.
She's crying, but you're yawning.
She's Ying, but you're Yang.
No, she's not alright. You just text messaged her with those final words written without capital letters, without punctuation or anything that would make you a gentleman: "lets break up". You didn't sigh as you placed the phone back in the pocket, continuing your stroll down the crowded and thin line of your thoughts. She didn't reply. She didn't call you crying, asking for an explanation despite the years you spent together. She didn't call to argue with you in the middle of a drunk night, neither did she ask for you to return by her side. Her dreams, her hopes, her silly laughter, her smell, her favourite shampoo, her hair brush, even her pink stained socks remained with you, in your apartment, in your bathroom, on your shelf, impregnated on your skin, sunk inside your mind.
And yet you left her. You put her behind, closing the book you were about to write together, leaving the hard work to her: she has to remember everything whenever she walks around the neighborhood because that was when you kissed her on your first date, when she goes shopping with her girls because that's where you planned a surprise event for her birthday, when she looks at her white hands turning blue because you used to be there to hold them and right now they're missing their pairs.
You chose the simple way out when you got scared.
No, you're not alright. You saved his text message only to stare at it blankly and wonder what went wrong. Were you childish? Were you clingy? Were you not seeing the obvious and holding on something that just didn't work for him? What exactly did you do, because you just know it was all your doing and not his since he's such a sweet and nice guy.
And there you are, sitting at the table for two, in his favourite coffee house, drinking his favourite mocha because - well, it turned into a bad habit to go back there again and again, hoping he will return with a smile, asking for forgiveness for being late once again.
Late. If you are to think he was always a little late: late when you graduated, late when you planned a surprise party for his birthday, late when the doctor announced you that you're pregnant, late when you went into the OAR to kill the product of your love nights, late when he finally confessed his feelings to you.
Late. Always late.
And late means another. Late means there was or still is someone else. Late means he deceived you. Late means he's a complete and total jackass. Late means it's finally over between you two.
He chose it for you and it was all for the best.
It left so many questions answered: "Where are you going?" "Why you wanna go?". She deserved an explanation, but he was too lazy to look for a better lie other than the truth he knows it so well: he was unprepared to be committed to a family with her, he was unprepared to see her face in the morning - every morning, unprepared to wear her perfume on the collar of his white shirt, her voice in his head, her soft touch on the back of his hand. He was unprepared to say "You are mine and I am yours, now and for a lifetime.".
Back he wanted to go. Back in time when he was afraid of kissing her, when her presence only would make his heart tumbling inside his chest, when they'd stay up late on the phone talking about stars and unknown names of the places they'd love to visit one day. Back before they'd become so used to each other, back when every day was a surprise, back when they would push each other off the bed because they both eyes the right side of the bed, back when the coffee would always get cold...
"Let's break up and start all over again."