When you begged on your knees as you kissed mine, I closed my eyes for a bit. Shut them down for a while, not letting my eyelids unfurl as an attempt to stop the tears that had been coming for hours on end. There was no hatred, no need for revenge, no anger at all; but there was grief. I grieved for us, for what we could’ve been.

I did say we married in Zurich. I did say we renewed our vows in Vienna. I did say we had a three-legged Golden Retriever named Goldie, and a grey cat. I did say we had a son named Archie. I did say we had a daughter named Gracie. I did agree we would use your middle name if we had a son.

I closed my eyes for a while. I saw myself cooking dinner as you got back home, taking off your shoes and hanging your jacket. I saw myself caressing your cheeks as you fell asleep next to me in your designated spot, then I would inch closer to you as an attempt to go home. Home. Wherever you are, were, no warmer than a pair of arms draping around me like a lying down on warm beach sand.

Thirty more seconds, my eyes were still closed as I somehow glanced down to my finger and noticed a ring there. Just like how I wanted it. Oval cut. Lab-grown. No more than three ct. We sacrificed a grand wedding to fulfill my dreams of having this ring, the ring that was once on my promise finger. That was once in my head. Just like how things were… in my head. Just in my head. Merely hopeful thoughts passing over like gentle winds, lulling me to sleep because there’s no way I could doze off without thinking about you.

I love you, grey cat. Grey sweater. I wish I had kept it. One last selfish request. To save a piece of you that I could hug forever before I fall into dreams—dreams that were once shared. What was once lit, now died out. I could no longer keep a light on, waiting for you whilst peering through a semi-open window, hoping you’d come home like Peter Pan and I was your Wendy Darling. You were once my lightning that I once tamed, and perhaps now the bottle broke and there was no way I could put the glass shards back together to contain you once more.

But, I can never blame you. I can never blame you for striking. For seeking better terrain. For entertaining a much better thunder chaser than I could ever be. I can never hate you for doing what you did. I’ve always known I wasn’t good enough, I wasn’t entertaining enough, I wasn’t pretty enough. If I was, you wouldn’t be dragging my name through the mud to your friends. But you were enough, in every aspect. In your shady job, family issues, and so-called unsupportive friends.

I wish what I had given you was enough. I have written countless letters, love poems with you as my muse. I have curated things that I knew you’d need, so it would lessen my worry a bit if we were far apart. I have given you my mom’s cooking, my utmost favorite food, just so you wouldn’t starve yourself if things didn’t happen like you thought they would. But you sought for more, and God, I could never ever blame you. All I’ve ever wanted was to make you happy, to guarantee that you’re happy. I’ve promised your mother that I would keep you fed, healthy, and well. But I’ve never promised her I would be enough for you. I would give you enough.

What is enough for you?

Is it the next girl?

Is it the one you sought while I was away?

When you close your eyes, do you see yourself marrying her in Zurich? Renewing your vows in Vienna? Adopting a grey cat so it can watch over her as you work?

When you begged on your knees and cried heavy rain, I stopped my crying and immediately hugged you. I caressed your cheeks and kissed your tears in hopes of calming you down. For a second, I forgave you, I forgave every betrayal you did and every shit-talk you did under the table. I knew there were no feelings involved, that you simply wasn’t in your right mind, you just didn’t know.

But I closed my eyes again. And I dreamed. I dreamed of us getting married again—the dream that I am too familiar with. The dream that I evoked, I prompted, like writing screenplay before witnessing the film on a big screen. But in the movie, I played the role of a suspecting wife. Someone who would blame herself for the rest of her life, someone who would look in the mirror and see nothing but second best.

Now I glanced on my thighs. The blood is pooling on the chair like spilling scarlet wine in a drunken night. But I wish it can be more painful. I wish I can inflict myself greater hurt than yours. But no matter how deep I cut, no matter how hard I slit, the pain could never compare. Pales. Pales in comparison. But I feel a little relief, a second without living in a mental turmoil, a second without your betrayal repeating in my head like a broken stereo.

How many days until my body is nothing but scars? How many days can I live on this earth without you in it? How can I move on if I will look for any resemblance of you in every person I meet? How can I continue to breathe if we’re not sharing the same air anymore? How can I pursue new plans when I have curated everything from A-Z, all containing you?

We married in Zurich. We renewed our vows in Vienna.

In my head, we married in Zurich. We renewed our vows in Vienna.