He never wrote to me by hand. Handwriting is tiring, while you have to think very carefully before you actually write something. Editing is not easy. Making a decision to rewrite after several attempts is hard. It also demands too much sincerity and courage which push oneself into limits of no return. I guess he would not be hardhearted to tell, or to speak the truth, capable of telling, me his thoughts clearly to my face. That is why email and SMS were his only choices.
I made a record of his SMSs by typing them on the notepad, so I could free space in the inbox of my phone for upcoming ones. I typed his messages, his name as the sender, and the exact time and date when I received them. His language habit was outlandish, while he used to skip either subjects or objects, and write with self-invented abbreviations. I always misread, and I got angry with him at the beginning. He then blamed me as the only one around him who had experienced such reading obstacles. So I shut up, persuading myself as a poor reader.
I also printed hardcopies of his emails and blog entries. For emails, all of those printed were his thoughts on my temper, my harsh demands on him, and his confusion of how we should get along with each other. Or to make it simple, something negative, stressful and harsh. For blog entries, most of them were not about me, but I guessed they implied something about me. He never told me straightly anyway. I folded them up and kept them in a compartment of the bag that I usually carried to school. I had read them for hundreds of times on the train, in the office, on the bench next to UCC, and at home. Margins of the paper were all worn out, and the colour almost faded away completely. I always burst into tears at the beginning, but later I got conditioned to the sorrowful status. No matter how sad I felt like, it was just like self-accusation and self-abuse. He did not know, and I did not intend to tell him either.
Sometimes I blamed myself for not being comforting enough, stopping him from telling me his mind. I seldom listened thoroughly, and I gave no appropriate response, didn't I? Trial and error just did not work. In desperate moments, I gave up thinking of the qualities of someone whom he is comfortable to speak to, with the belief that no matter how hard I work beyond my perceived range, I am not the right one.
I am not the right one. So, this is the only thing that I can tell myself, regardless of the fact that I would never want to believe in it.
I made a record of his SMSs by typing them on the notepad, so I could free space in the inbox of my phone for upcoming ones. I typed his messages, his name as the sender, and the exact time and date when I received them. His language habit was outlandish, while he used to skip either subjects or objects, and write with self-invented abbreviations. I always misread, and I got angry with him at the beginning. He then blamed me as the only one around him who had experienced such reading obstacles. So I shut up, persuading myself as a poor reader.
I also printed hardcopies of his emails and blog entries. For emails, all of those printed were his thoughts on my temper, my harsh demands on him, and his confusion of how we should get along with each other. Or to make it simple, something negative, stressful and harsh. For blog entries, most of them were not about me, but I guessed they implied something about me. He never told me straightly anyway. I folded them up and kept them in a compartment of the bag that I usually carried to school. I had read them for hundreds of times on the train, in the office, on the bench next to UCC, and at home. Margins of the paper were all worn out, and the colour almost faded away completely. I always burst into tears at the beginning, but later I got conditioned to the sorrowful status. No matter how sad I felt like, it was just like self-accusation and self-abuse. He did not know, and I did not intend to tell him either.
Sometimes I blamed myself for not being comforting enough, stopping him from telling me his mind. I seldom listened thoroughly, and I gave no appropriate response, didn't I? Trial and error just did not work. In desperate moments, I gave up thinking of the qualities of someone whom he is comfortable to speak to, with the belief that no matter how hard I work beyond my perceived range, I am not the right one.
I am not the right one. So, this is the only thing that I can tell myself, regardless of the fact that I would never want to believe in it.
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