Chan still grieves.
When opens his eyes and remember the date, his heart clenches.
How long will it take for it to be fully in the past? How long will the pain linger?
His mom says that it'll accompany him just as long as he allows it to, but he is not entirely sure that it's true. Chan doesn't want it there; the grief, the pain, the past. Most times, he doesn't even think about what had been, about the version of himself that no longer exists, buried next to a relationship that was never meant to last. But sometimes, he can't help but succumb to the memories.
It's not as though he misses what is gone. No, not anymore.
It's just hard to remember himself before that one beginning, before he began to shed bits of himself until the small, incomplete version that roams around now came to life. He doesn't miss the relationship, or the person he was with, or the joyous moments that certainly existed. He misses what can never come back.
The confidence to believe that he, too, was worthy of love. That despite his flaws and shortcomings, someone out there would see the beauty in his heart and choose to love him and all that he isn't proud of. That despite making mistakes, he knew that he wasn't a bad person, and that recognizing what was wrong and grow was more important than being right. That he could overcome heartbreak, too.
He grieves the person he once were, the person who might not actually have been that great, but now is painted beautifully in rose colors. He grieves the person he could have been if not completely removed from himself, if not broken beyond repair. He grieves when he looks at himself, and he can see where the cracks lie; in his eyes, in his voice, in his posture, in his heart which beats painfully in his chest.
Will he ever fix himself enough that the chips and the cracks aren't visible? Will he ever cover himself enough that his scars are hidden? Will he ever feel whole again?
Time passes in a second, and Chan remembers everything. Every broken part of himself, every scar he can't erase; all is too fresh. He is still in a car, pressed against the window. He is still in his room, reading words too cruel to be spoken. He is still somewhere else, cut and open, unaware that he's dying.
His deathbed isn't soft and covered in flowers.
It's messy and full of dirt. For every once in a while, he digs the memories out.
And every time he does, Chan grieves.
nine
#pepperwrites
