I’m stating farewell to the likelihood of you and me, not that we had any, to be completely forthright.
Farewell to any probability of a romantic tale with you. Farewell to the “quite a long time ago” and “cheerfully ever after” that had never been inked on any bit of paper, or on any surface so far as that is concerned.
Farewell to any probability of dates. Kite-flying, setting off to the gallery, viewing a b-ball game, surfing the waves in La Union or Baler, climbing a mountain, going to a puppy bistro, wandering around the book shop, and heading toward the North or South and simply disregard whatever is left of the world for some time.
Farewell to any probability of the seemingly insignificant details. Sending photographs and recordings of anything that could make the other giggle, the little notes that we’d slip into each other’s takes, the irregular endowments we’d give each other on typical days, the senseless chitchats and inside jokes we’d have, the “hello” and “goodbye” messages and everything in the middle.
Farewell to any plausibility of the huge things. The shocks we’d pull off for each other, the lengths we’d experience recently to put a grin on each other’s face; me supporting you in each amusement you play and being glad for what you’ve done in light of the fact that I know you’re great at it; and you giving me a chance to drag you to my most loved group’s diversion despite the fact that you’d rather bolster yours.
Farewell to any plausibility of mistaken assumptions and contradictions. Of desire, of having diverse perspectives on subjects that profoundly matter to us, of checking and contrasting each other’s missteps, of giving our pride a chance to act as a burden.
Farewell to any plausibility of us turning out to be better forms of ourselves. Of us figuring out how to regard a totally inverse assessment from our own, of placing ourselves in alternate’s shoes before bouncing into conclusions, of how bargain can spare a relationship, of relinquishing one’s joy for the other.
Farewell to any plausibility of butterflies, sparkles, and firecrackers.
Farewell to any probability of knowing each other on a more profound level. On late-night discussions that would proceed until the principal beams of daylight look through the mists; on recognizing what tickles the extravagant of the other, our biggest fears, our aspirations; on what pisses the other off, on what could make the other grin, chuckle, cry, or in case we’re fortunate, feel those in the meantime.
Farewell to any probability of making you glad. For I genuinely know somewhere down in my heart and in the smallest corners of my mind, for all that I need to give, nothing can contrast with the joy she brings you.
Farewell to the potential affection we could have had. The kind that makes the other need to be the person who cherishes more; the all-expending, each fiber-of-my-being sort of adoration; the sort of affection that would be between us as well as with all the general population we think about; the sort of affection that would reverberate from the most profound center of our souls.
Farewell to the romantic tale that had never been allowed to start.