P

P was always feisty. Her feistiness showed through in everything she did - in the way she loved and in the way she fought. She yearned for attention, but did not trust any man who gave it to her. She had a pretty plum face and chose to keep her eyes at an optimal level of sootiness. I figured it was a defense mechanism of sorts. You see, P grew up in a broken family, around broken, drunk men, and she was always ready to hide her tears, especially when it came to men.

I gave in to P's feistiness first because she was pretty and she was flirtatious, and then, as I grew to know her more, I felt a strong sense of sadness in my heart for all that she had been through. And in her feisty ways, she taught me that I was occasionally a male chauvinistic pig, and I learned to see things differently. But the feistiness started to drain me over time. Her sobs became meaningless. Her emotional barrages lost weight, and I could not reason with myself, as I had, many times before, "Let it be, she's been through much more". I knew I had to leave her, but I wanted to leave her whole, capable of loving a man without fear.

But P was incorrigible. Many years passed and I forgot her, eventually. I cannot recall what had tipped it over, but it was never going to be pleasant. And then, one day, I remembered a long lost friend, and we met up for a chat. R was a pleasant chap, a writer, and P knew him too. After some reminiscing about our days together, and common friends, he mentioned P. It was inevitable. He told me that P was doing well, but she had suffered too. Typical P, I thought, until he told me that her mother had committed suicide. It's been quite a while now, he said. It's been quite a while, I thought, how long ago? My heart sank in to a corner so deep I thought I would not be able to find it again. And in the next moment I was overcome with rage and felt an urge to see my coffee cup smash into the wall but I held myself. How could that sweet girl be made to suffer so much, how much? ... 

In that moment, I saw P again, as I had first seen her; faultless, blameless in a cruel, unforgiving world, but also remembered her courage, and ... desperation, for change. I felt guilty, somehow. I wished to be there, to comfort her, although, I knew I couldn't, and I probably shouldn't. But I was overcome with emotion and I erred immediately - no one who knows me would have expected otherwise. The new year was fast approaching, and it was an opportune time, it felt, to mend old bonds and I thought it would cheer her up a little to see that someone she knew well had remembered her after so long, and with affection. I wrote hastily, "Hi P, I was talking to R when I was reminded of you. I hope you're doing great. I'm sorry we parted ways on such acrimonious terms. We should catch up again. Take care and Happy New Year!" 

Her reply came late, and when it did, it did not befit the time it had taken. It was a terse "HNY". Some people are just not capable of love or affection or anything more sublime, I thought. I had only wanted to see her happy. But she had only given me pain, when I was with her, and when I was without, and without remorse, I thought. And yet, in the next moment, I remembered her tears, her frail self, and wondered; was she still hurting? Was it me who just could not understand and was it me who was all to blame? But for what? And then I thought, it cannot be, it made no sense, how foolish of me, how self-righteous, and assuming, because after all, too many years had passed since - surely emotions had dwindled and passions waned and maybe even the memories were now lost. In the end, I decided that she had simply forgotten who I was and that was perhaps for the best. Then I let it be.