Attachments

I shrug. As though I can easily brush it off as nothing. But my eyes gave me away, quickly watering as soon as the idea was drilled into my head. I hate myself. There I am again. So quick to soften. So easy to read. So easy to become… vulnerable.

And then I see her eyes, the dropping of her lips. The pity. I hate the pity. I hate them all.

“Why?” She asked more softly. I hate her voice. I hate the softness of it. It makes me more watery inside. More jelly-like. I hate it. Can’t she be angry? So I can be angry and cry because of my anger, not because of my fear or weakness or vulnerability.

“I…” my voice is now raspy. Great. There is no water or any liquid in sight. I try to swallow it down but it comes out small. “I hate being attached.” I say, and like water, my mouth burst into a waterfall. A disgusting waterfall, where words that I have locked deep inside, now cascade down upon it. “I hate people because I hate being attached. And when you’re attached, you become happy. But they leave, and when they leave, you become sad. But that’s not all. No, not for me. When they leave, and often in a snap,” a laugh escapes my lips. And tears start to drop. I let my hands stay on my lap. “And when they leave, I think of million reasons where it went wrong, what I did wrong, what I could have done, what if I did not do whatever it is, what if I could change the past. What would have happened now if that did not happen. And everything of it is in my mind and it scares me, frustrates me, makes me sad, makes me lonely. It destroys everything. Maybe not outside, but inside, it hurts.”

I gasp for breath. My chest falling and rising rapidly. She whispers it’s okay. It’s okay… it’s okay. No its not. I’m such a dumbass. Now I can’t take it back. I’ve cut myself open to her and I can’t stitch myself back up.

“I don’t want to feel like that. I don’t want to burden people, to cause them problems due to my actions. I don’t want to feel scared I might make a mistake. I don’t want to feel scared they will leave. I don’t want to feel sad, lonely, afraid–lonely. Loneliness eats me up inside in ways I cannot express.”

She nods as if she understands. No she doesn’t. Not even a tiny bit. This mind, even I cannot understand it. Even I am frustrated and confused of it that I always shut it out.

I squeeze my eyes shut and let the last tears drop. I pinch each of my lap to focus on the pain. To concentrate on something better, less painful you could say. I don’t know for how long I stayed that way.

“Eya?” She calls.

I open my eyes and her eyes stares into mine, waiting for an answer. There are no traces of tears in my cheeks.

I stare into my lap. It’s deep red,

“Eya? Why do you dislike people so much? Why can’t you talk to them properly?Maybe with more kindness and compassion?” She leans forward, putting both her elbows on her knees. “Why do you push them away?”

I meet her eyes. Hold them for a moment. Then I shrug, “I hate people. Nothing we can’t do about that.”

I stand up, my hands into locked fists beside me. No tears come out. No blubbering and disgusting confession. No cutting myself open. No, not today. Maybe never.

“Eya!” She calls me, “Why are you so–”

I slam the door shut.

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