Foster the scapegoat

This is the point in the transition when I try to figure why what happened actually happened. This is when most of my thoughts head the same direction. You could've stopped this from happening, Niko. This is all your fault.

And, not surprisingly, I'm actually buying that. This is all my fault.

I shouldn't have put my heart in it. Experience, always, shows that when I do, things are bound to go wrong. I go one step further without realizing that I'm already stepping on the grass, so to speak. I'm stepping on the grass, and it's a rainy day, and my feet are muddy, and the security guards are running after me. But bare feet in grass. It's a good feeling.

Inevitably, I told Clarence about all of it the last time we met. I pretty much told her that, yes, I've been through this before, meeting someone and having my insides jump, but this is different. Actually different. I remember sending someone (can't remember who, or maybe, don't want to remember who) these text messages about the possibility that there is something actually going on. "There is... a spark," I told Clarence, hesitantly, that afternoon. "There was something."

I shouldn't have made this - I don't know how to put this - quest for love that one calling in life. I know. I sounds terribly scratched up. And completely hypocritical. I have always said I will remain single until I die. A bad approach, if you're a believe in the law of attraction. A really bad approach, since I'm still looking for it despite saying otherwise. Sure, I never really act on my feelings, because I'm scared of what would happen the moment I do. Things break apart the moment you say something along the lines of "I love you". I learned that not saying it at all, while painful in the short term, actually helps you get through in the long run. Sure, you still search for that love thing in every place, but you do not go through the heartbreak that comes with finding it.

I shouldn't have called this love, in fact. This is not love, Niko. That is not love, Niko. Maybe I'm entering the point when I try to convince myself that this whole lark, this whole needlessly painful lark, is the product of me mistaking this whole shiny happy feeling inside for love. Maybe it's excitement. Maybe it's anxiety. Definitely not love.

I've never been good with reading signs, I admit, much more signs within myself.

But that one's different.

"There is... a spark," I told Clarence, as it turns out, with quite some conviction, that afternoon. "There was something." And then I went on to enumerate the conversations that surprisingly went well, the conversations between the corner coffee shop that April evening and, two years later, the corner coffee shop that March afternoon. Those moments when I sensed I wasn't just being indulged. Those moments when I saw hints about the need for something new. Call me delusional - I've always called myself that - because, hell, I'm not good at reading signs, but I've been flubbing those signs for years now, and I know when I'm doing something regardless of my apprehensions, and I know when I'm doing something because I know it's worth it. At least until you started to change.

That is the mistake. You started to change, and I pushed on.

I shouldn't have stayed the course when I should've pulled the plug.

This is the point in the transition when I accept that none of the excuses I made to explain that fallout hold up. Yes, it is my fault. It's my fault I felt... this. In many instances, realizing just that helps me to get past the made-up pain and move on. Hate on me for believing there is something - after all, you had a boyfriend, but you didn't seem to be happy with it, the way you talked about how the whole thing just happened by chance. That aspect changes the whole process completely.

Maybe it's your stories of how you always had more male friends. Maybe you just know how to deal with them. Play with their heads, perhaps.

My biggest mistake is that I did not know you too well. It's always a mistake I make, jumping to conclusions. But I did not know you too well.

"Bakit hindi ka agad nag-text?"

"I was busy!"

You were busy? You should've told me you were busy! Damn it, Gwen. You promised me you'd give me a date. I waited a whole week for that date. When I asked you, repeatedly, to give me a date, you did not reply. You do give me a date, but it was just hours away. You made me take a taxi in the middle of a transport strike. I paid seven hundred bucks for that taxi. You made me go to a place I did not know at three in the afternoon. You made me wait an hour. You came, we talked, and then you left me to do important things. You did not ask me to leave. You asked me to wait. You made me wait another hour. And then you asked me to leave. Nicely, I must maintain, but you did not bother to say goodbye.

Do you really not know what you just did?

Sure, it is my fault I fell for this, that, but it's easier to blame this all on you, because you are the scapegoat.

And your responses...

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