Read the first part here.
I grabbed the bag full of stuff with one hand. There’s another bag to carry so my other hand was assigned to that. I didn’t want to leave the other bag behind. As I walk, both became heavier than how they originally were. I guess the walking contributed to the enervation.
How did my bag get so heavy? I asked myself. So I peeked inside and saw my usual things in it. Must just be so tired that I thought it’s heavier.
Just when I’m about to button my bag closed, I saw something that’s not mine. Why is it in my bag and why do I carry them? I opened the other bag and not a single thing was mine.
Then you suddenly appeared looking so weary and helpless, distracting me from my current predicament. And I knew exactly why.
It’s her again.
I couldn’t blame you. I couldn’t even hate you. In fact, I felt as weary and helpless. I know there’s nothing I could say to make you feel better because you’re longing for another voice. For her words to fill in your ears and mind. For her to soothe your aches and heal the bruises in your heart.
It’s ironic, though. Because she gave you that pain, and only her could un-pain them. Or at least, it’s only her whom you wanted to patch them up for you. But still, it didn’t stop me from wanting to be there for you, to share the pain, and to hope I could still make things lighter for you.
I thought that anytime soon you’d come around and go back to your senses; realize that she’s not healthy for your being.
God, these bags are starting to slip from my grip.
Go back to senses… All of a sudden, I remembered that I was trying to figure out something before you came because I felt that the bags were getting heavier again than they ever were.
Then I realized… This was your bag. Your bag full of things about her and the agony you’ve been lugging. That every time you’re exhausting your woe, the weight started increasing. It’s not my bag to handle, but each time I saw you hurting because of her, I was also hurting. And now, I was carrying it like it was mine.
And the other stuff inside my own bag were also yours. My own hurting because of you.
While you bear your hurt, I bear yours and mine at the same time.
It was too much for me. Too much weight that my grasp was starting to slide.
I couldn’t leave you, no. I couldn’t just let you carry everything, every hurt on your own. But the bag was dragging me down defenselessly. It started to hurt me more. It started to strain my whole body.
You pronounced how much you love her with such sorrow in every word, which gave me stabbing grief, too. More weights on the bags.
Then. I let the bag go. I let your bag go.
I made a detour and left you, too. I didn’t want to. But I had to. And I was sorry. I’m sorry.
I wanted to keep you whole and carry things for you, but I was progressing on my breakage throughout the walk. I knew this was selfish. But I needed to go and save the love I have for you as it is, in one piece and untainted. And I could only do this if I still have myself.
I held on to my own bag with the remnants of you. And I knew that even if it was heavy on its own, I would not want to remove you from it.
I walked every step with a heavy heart while tugging both feet thinking that I should have not left you. I forfended myself from looking back to you. But I did anyway in the hopes of seeing your eyes following me where I have reached so far from my detour, yearning for me to come back by your side and help you get your ducks together.
I saw you walking towards her carrying your bag I have left behind.