Two Boys and A Man.

This fondness for stoic people - so... Joie.

***

Queen G: Deaders siya, Ateh

Joie: Ow?

Queen G: Yiz.

Joie: I didn't know that.

Queen G: As in. Deadma. Be it work or non-work things. No reaction.

Joie: Oh. So it's pointless for me to bring this issue to him.

Queen G: Yes. Deaders.Let's take care of it. If we involve him...deaders.

Joie: But, but... he was answering my questions.

Queen G: Espesyal ka, Ateh.

This is 5th Grade. This might as well be written on a piece of Yasaka intermediate pad, using one of those glittery, scented Panda pens. Everyone should have a crush. Something fancy and dandy and light. Something that makes one sing a Tina Paner song. So he's stoic. Doesn't matter. I'd give anything to be his green-and-yellow-striped-once-upon-a-time-white shirt. Or one of those. I'd like to believe that he does have a lot of those shirts, and that he doesn't have questionable hygiene.

***

This is lunacy. I'm Googling him shamelessly.

***

My heart was fast, and then slow, and then furious again. Then, I can't hear it pulsate anymore.

I thought I saw the last of him the day I put my shoes by the door, beside his packed bags. This, I resignedly thought, was it. No turning back. No room for goodbyes. He was watching TV. Not a flick of his head or a grunt, anything to acknowledge me, getting home after yet another day on a job that I have no love for. He cared not. The food I left for him, untouched, unwarmed. Indifference. It's more painful than hatred.

Once upon a time long lost, I was his love. And he was mine. We knew of no other love as such. I was his fount of joy. He was my fount of wonder.

And we drifted apart. And we did ugly things to each other. And we lost sight of each other's humanness.

He sat there. His frame, drooping. Those shoulders were once my wall. He sat there. Savoring a P20-bowl of goto. His shirt, unwashed, no different from his hair, it seemed. I was hoping he'd see me. I was hoping he won't see me.


And it wasn't him. It was some stranger, a stranger like he is to me now.


I miss my Dad. So much. But like most men I so loved, I know he's not coming back.


***

I. Hate. You.

(I wish I can claim indifference, but I can't. I care a world.)

***

This is different, but it isn't working. No, this is not for me.