Day One hundred and thirty five - When we murdered the world on the fourteenth of May

[I have to make a preamble before I go into the rest of this sad tale. This day, the 14th of May, will never not be a weird day for me. For one, it's my father's birthday, and naturally, I always end up thinking about him... though I never want to. Oh, I don't linger, and nor do I feel any pangs of guilt for not seeing him in close to twenty years now. But there is a part of me that wishes that somehow we'd all have been happier. One other reason why this is a weird day for me is because it's also the birthday of someone I once was very close to - Sonia - but that's a story that's yet to come, it's a few years away from this story right now. Sonia was my last attempt - serious, at that - of having a relationship, and it really didn't work out. And then I just sort of gave up. But we'll ge there, in due time.]

Now, whether or not Silvia and I had agreed to meet up in person or if I took that initiative upon myself, I can't remember. What's important is that soon enough I'd foud myself at her door. The person who opened up the door to let me in was barely recognizable to me : the hurt had changed her, distorted into a grotesque caricature of herself. Seeing this broke me, knowing that I had caused this broke me even further. And callous as this may seem... I had no idea what and how much she knew. So I had to gauge exactly how much she, in fact, knew. I tiptoed around the conversation and discerned that she was sure about two instances only. Now, out of both self-preservation and a desire not to hurt her any further, I told her that that was that. We talked for a veey long time - it was still early afternoon when I got there, and into the small hours of the morning we carried on talking. Maybe she asked me why. Maybe I said there wasn't ever any reason why. I don't know. I no longer know. I know, though, that I was fully expecting for us to be finished that night. I was fully expecting Silvia to move to London, and then she'd completely cut me off from her life, and I'd never see her again. It would have been no less than what I deserved.

What I didn't expect - and certainly did not deserve -  was how, amid all the tears we were weeping, tears who, unto themselves, could have filled an ocean, she told me she needed me. SHE needed me. She NEEDED me. She needed ME. And why she needed me - especially then - I could never fathom. She could have had anyone. Anyone else would have been better for her. Not this broken, damaged, husk of a specimen that quivered before her. And at that moment wy heart fully went into bloom with my love for her. And that would herald a strange metamorphosis for us.