First Love — Part III

“I'm really sorry,” he said quietly. It was probably the eight hundredth time he had uttered those godforsaken words within the past hour.

I ignored him. I engrossed myself in the art of folding my laundry. Three weeks had passed since I last did my laundry — or any chores for that matter. I spent every single day in bed under my sheets except when I had to go to class. I did nothing that deviated from the norm.

“Please talk to me,” he begged. “Say something.”

I looked at him sternly. “And what exactly did you want me to say?”

“I don't know, anything!” He looked more desperate than a recovering alcoholic in front of a champagne fountain.

My eyes couldn't bring themselves to produce any more tears. I must've fulfilled my year's quota for tears over the past three weeks. I reckon that the sadness is over — anger and hate washing it over in full force.

I dumped the turtleneck sweater I was holding on my bed. I stood up and tried hard to regain my composure.

“I'm sorry,” I started.

I almost heard a whiplash happen as his head swung towards my direction. “Excuse me?” he said positively bewildered.

“I'm sorry,” I repeated it. A little more loudly this time.

“I'm sorry that you are a world class jackass. I'm sorry that you have a brain the size of a bean sprout. I'm sorry that you are so weak. I'm sorry that you cheated on me. And I'm even more sorry that it had to be with that slut lady friend of yours that's a friend of the family's,” I said whilst making dramatic finger quotes for emphasis on the last phrase. I felt my voice rising and my cheeks flaring up.

“I'm sorry that you got drunk. I'm sorry that you never learned how to handle your alcohol. I'm sorry that it all started with a kiss. I'm sorry that it just happened without any of you planning on it,” I was seething inside and a giant lump was rising in my throat.

Then I yelled, “And I'm sorriest for being the stupidest girl alive to allow this to happen the second time around!!!”

I fell on my knees and started sobbing uncontrollably. My knees hit the rug the wrong way and I felt my kneecaps throbbing in pain. The pain, however, wasn't enough to override the hurt I was feeling inside. I wanted the ground to just open up and swallow me in my entirety.

He ran to my side and put his arms around me. “Baby, I'm really really really sorry. I swear to God I'm so sorry. You gotta believe me. I'll never hurt you again.”

I cradled my knees to stop the pain. Whether or not I was trying to curb the pain on my knees or my heart, I'm not quite sure. My tears felt hot against my face and my hair was clinging onto the its wetness. I couldn't breathe — literally — I started gasping for breath as if the tubes to my lungs have closed up.

“Baby?” he whispered, almost scared that I might die in that instant. “Are you okay?”

It took a minute or two to calm myself down. I shut my eyes tightly and briefly tried to go to a wonderful place. Even in my most private thoughts he was there. I opened my eyes again and saw his face filled with concern and anxiety.

“Get out,” I said in a hoarse voice. “I want you to get out — out of my room, out of my apartment and out of my life!”

His face crumpled and his eyes glazed over. “But baby,” he said. “We've been together for five years. Can I try working my way back to you? Please don't shut me out. Not yet. I love you. I love you so much. Please?”

I stared him down. “You should've thought of that three weeks ago when you came back from home with the slut's note stuck in your coat's pocket,” I glowered at him without remorse.

Then he broke down. He covered his face with his hands in that typical male fashion where they don't want anyone to know that they're actually capable of crying.

He looked at me with pleading eyes. “Please find it in your heart to give me half a chance,” he said, barely audible. “I can't live without you. I wouldn't know what to do without you.”

I brushed his hands off my arm. “Yes, you can. I managed to live without you for the past three weeks. It's a promising start,” I retorted. “I'm sure you won't have any trouble doing the same thing. After all, you have that slut to go back to.”

“No,” he cried. “No, no, no…”

I held my room's door open for him. I was breaking inside but I know I needed to do this for myself. He took one last look at me in a bid to say farewell and I'm sorry but I turned away.

“I will always love you. I'm so sorry,” I heard him say before I heard him trudge across the apartment to let himself out.

I held tightly onto the doorknob as if willing it to keep me from running after him. I hated him for hurting me so much, and I hated myself for falling so deeply for him. I wanted the aching to stop… it was consuming my very being.

Does it always hurt this much? This funny thing they call love? It's like taking you to the summit of the world only to commit to a head-on free fall with nothing to catch you at the bottom.

I had to let him go — for his sake, for my sake, for my sanity's sake. I will always love him but it's perhaps best to contain the happy memories before the ugly ones elbow it over completely. First love. First heartbreak.

First meltdown.

Even though he had stripped me off everything I have — including my heart and my soul — I know that deep inside, he loved me too. Maybe we were right for each other, but we just met at the wrong time.

Or maybe… maybe I just cannot bring myself to accept that sometimes, what we thought would last forever doesn't last at all. Because maybe there is no forever.