Aida Zabidi
It turns out I’m quite a sucker for those tragic love stories. 

I’d been in his shoes – stuck between loving two people, and I understood the choice he was making. He was afraid, just as I’d been, and fear would always hold us back. He would stay with her, believing he was doing the right thing, not necessarily because he wanted to, but because it was the right thing. It made me realize how similar we were in the worst of ways, or perhaps the best of ways. 

I wondered if she would ever find out about that night, and if he would ever tell her the extent of the truth. Maybe she would remain blissfully oblivious about the things that had transpired, and perhaps he would pass it off as the most casual of things. Maybe she would believe him, or maybe she wouldn’t – but perhaps she was forgiving enough to let things slide. 

Maybe it should have been myself who should have been more questioning – perhaps it would have been wiser to close my ears to the sweet truths and untruths, and at some point during that night, I was no longer sure that either one of us could distinguish between the truth and the lesser truth. Maybe he believed what he told me, or perhaps he was just able to justify the things he said. 

I wonder if the moon would ever remind him of her, as it once reminded him of me. 

If he would make the sacrifices for her that he had made for me. 

That he would write for her the way he had written to me. 

I dreamt that he would recycle the same lines, the phrases that made me smile – silly things like how he used to tell me I was a strawberry, sweet inside and out, and that he was a cekodok – ugly on the outside, and sweet on the inside, and I wondered if each time he said something it would become less real. I wondered if he would go out and sing the same songs at karaoke that he used to sing with me. 

I wonder if she would give him a secret nickname, just as I secretly used to call him my polar bear. 

I don’t know why he went through the extent of tonight, and claimed that it was all for me. I would have moved on, in the same way I’d done in the past, in a mixture of time and my own resilience. I wondered how much of it was for himself, but he claimed the same things he’d always done in the past – that all that he’d done was for me. 

There were too many questions in my mind – too many questions and not enough answers. Or perhaps I understood the answers, because I too had gone through the same thing. 

How hurtful, to understand the situation so clearly.
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