Resonance of a Silent Love: A short story.
Everything that flourishes, withers eventually. How do you mourn the death of a relationship? Do you mourn, as you do for the death of a friend? In any case he has to mourn somehow and hope he will move forward with life now that he is sure it is over. Even if it is not over, he no longer has the inner strength to take on this relationship. He no longer wants this relationship. He wants to be free from it. He wants to do his mourning and go.
They say fortunes are lost bit by bit, then all at once. His relationship mirrored this: a gradual erosion over months, then abruptly, everything vanished. Everything! gone.
Now that he looks back, the first thing to go was her curiosity for him. Her texts or calls to just check up on him. Their normal conversations became more labored. Those things that he looked forward to dried. The anecdote about a neighbor, a rumor or some other trivial thing that liked to hear from her just to hear about her day never came. Yes, she has stopped to call or text him. He thought she was busy. And he then took it upon himself to keep this relationship going by texting and making an effort to call daily. This is when the relationship started to feel like work. He is doing his bit. Why? But he loved her, why ask. There is always something unhealthy about this relationship, doing this extra bit didn’t make it more unhealthier than before.
The next thing to go was the guaranteed responses to his calls and texts. And then everything that is involved in having a relationship with someone, let alone a love relationship, simple communication.
This love had “unhealthy” written all over it. She was capable of responding with the right gestures and words. Someday, to make him feel he is the most important person in the world, the most beloved. Most days to hold her love and making sure to torture him with it. The feelings he has for her like a huge yoke on his neck that would push him to sink. Sink to the abyss. But, he is not easy to kill, or rather he has an amazing will to fight that he would never let go and drown. And so, he will find his way to the surface. Breathe fresh air. But, then curiosity for her would come upon him. He would look for her. And he would get high and sink back to the abyss. The torture without end. He thinks back and feels guilty about his own part in it. He was a willing participant to his own torture. How did he give her that power over him?
The best moments, though scarce, were when he was with her. Those days, few as they were over the years, shone the brightest. Everything seemed to make sense when she was next to him. Speaking, cooking, eating, watching a movie or kissing or whatever. There is something about her that still takes his breath away. It has alway done so. Since they were kids. Maybe even now, she is a gateway to his childhood. She reminds him of his childhood aspirations and dreams. To his naive way to look at the world. To things he will do once he grows up. To the world he will discover and languages he will learn. The places in the magazines that he will see in person.
Their moments together followed a predictable pattern: prolonged separations, intense meetings, and the long wait until their next encounter.
In the past, during the pre-meeting days, they would speak almost everyday. Endless chats. Gauge each other’s mental state. Listen to each other. Similarly in the post meeting days. But in later days, he would try to call without response, send many messages that go unanswered for days on out. Until he gets a response and a conversation gets opened up. Until a day when the message goes unanswered. And then a mini “dry” period. And the circle continues.
The post-meetings would follow a similar pattern. The day after the meeting with lots of joy and happiness between the two. Everybody asks “but why don’t we do this often?”. Then a mini crisis, over something in the conversation that triggers an episode of jealousy on her, or a misplaced word that triggers some insecurity. Something definitely happens to remove that meeting’s high and send the entire thing to the abyss that he has to work for. Sometimes, but not always, she gets caught up in the process. She says that she becomes too angry or too sad. She has to take some sleeping pills to sleep and find her normal life rhythm. And bit by bit, the post-meeting becomes pre-meeting. Days, weeks, and often months go by.
Like all addiction, rewards are never predictable, or proportional to the efforts. When she comes, he is in the center of the world again. He doesn’t know what had made her come. But does it matter? She is there with him, he couldn’t care less. The days, weeks, months gone are not of any importance. She is there with him and that is what really matters. These are the days he lives for. He is in paradise.
This time is different. This time is really over. This time he is mourning over the dead love. Never again he will wonder about how she is. Or even to hear her voice or want to see her face. He has had his fair share of love bombing and trauma bombing. Now any of those would trigger a heart attack. This time is really, really, really over he says. Not like last time. Last time he mourned too soon. He is convinced.
They found his lifeless body in his bed. His room was neat as has always lived. Spotless clean. No item, or paper out of place. His house minimalistic. His guitar next to his bed. The stand and the score he is practicing at the moment next to it. His locked phone on the table. No notification whatsoever. A small icon of resurrection on the table. It must have been from the Eastern churches. The one with the messiah coming rising from the depths of shoal pulling with him Adam and Eve. Breaking hell’s gates in the process. This is probably the most peculiar thing in his room. The one thing that no one thinks anything about. But it is probably the odd things that define us. Our love, our hope, our life.
