I don’t know if I just want to continuously hurt myself, but I just did it again. I could even barely feel my fingers as I tap the words through the keyboard. I’m trembling, and tears are forming in my eyes.
So stupid. Such an idiot.
If I don’t want to hurt, why do I keep doing this to myself? Why do I keep bringing him up? Is it not enough that I think about him almost everyday and every night even after two years? None of it would change anything. None of it would bring him back.
I was checking my Friendster account today to approve a friend request, when I felt the urge to do something foolish again.
A little more than two years ago, I was searching for long lost friends in the internet, specifically Friendster. Back then I just found it interesting, and I was treading through memory lane. I was just curious on how my friends and classmates from elementary and high school were doing after all those years. I was actually even more curious about a particular friend from Senior year, high school. We were really close. Close enough to make her ex-girlfriend jealous, and close enough to cause rumors spreading around the campus.
I knew from before that he's a little technophobic. He didn't even have his own cellphone because he didn't really like texting, which was the craze back then (even until now, actually). He preferred landlines. Cheaper, classic and intimate. This is why in almost three years after high school, I never ran his name for a search in the internet. I didn't think he'd have a page. But that one time, I tried--just in case. Well what do you know, there were two search results under his name in Friendster. Turns out, it was both his. That's how I found out that he migrated to another country. Based on his profile, he was having a better life--a better future. I was happy for him. I hesitated for a while, but still decided to send him a message saying "Hi!". I never received a reply, and felt disappointed. It was alright though, back then.
It was alright, until one night, I believe it was exactly a month after I found his name on Friendster, I received a text message saying that he is gone. No time, place and reason. Only that he is gone... forever. Imagine my reaction, looking straight at my professor's face as he talked about Machiavelli oblivious of the fact that I was using my cellphone despite the school policy against it. That was the last thing I heard from his lecture. I could only remember something hard building on my chest, my hands sweating, and my sight was blurring. I could not seem to function. Immediately after the class ended, I called my friend who told me the news. I was angry telling him that it was not a good joke. He said, he was sorry but he was not joking. It was not something he would joke about. He knew that we were close in high school, so he would not even dare play with me when it comes to something like that. I knew he was not lying. I don't remember if I apologized to him, but I know I did the morning after. I only remembered ending the call saying I have to go.
I just entered the auditorium when I kept my phone. It was packed with people. I was, then, heading an event for a student organization. I called that project my baby, and I was so proud of it. It was the night for me. But instead of being excited as the show started, I cried. I cried so hard in my best friend's arms. She was at first confused why I was crying. I could not get the words out. I just told her repeatedly, "He's gone." "What?" she sounded shocked and alert. "Who's gone?" "He's gone," I knew, for some reason, that she'll get who I mean without having to elaborate. And she did as she said, chanted really, "Oh my god." I was able to get through that night. The project was a success. People loved it. I loved it. But it failed in taking my mind off of the bad news I received that night.
It felt like something died in me. When I heard the news, it seemed like everything ended.
I have been writing stories ever since I started high school. My genres shifted, but still I continued to write. After graduation, there was a common theme among my stories, and that was my close friend in Senior year. It was not exactly him who I have used in my stories, but they were inspired by him--by us, by the relationship we had. We were not involved romantically. We stayed as friends, which was my choice. I didn't see it back then what I really felt towards him, until after we parted ways. I guess the hope of being reunited with him again drove me to write all those stories. They were unfinished really, because that's a problem with me. When my brain shifts to another idea, I set aside what I'm currently working on and start the new one. However, after reading the text message about his death, I found myself unable to continue all the stories I have started that reminded me of him. They are now stories that will never have their ending. I can't even look at them now. It's just too painful.
I was slowly recovering, but few weeks later, another text message brought me back to tears. Another friend from high school asked me if I have heard of the news about our friend's death. She told me that it was his wake around the time when I found out about it. I felt like I died the second time. It was unbearable.
Just when I thought that was enough, few weeks later, I died the third time. This time, through a Friendster message. This time, also, I found out the reason. Leukemia. If this was in a movie, I would have snarled, but this is real. He is gone. He is not coming back. Knowing the cause of his death only made it even more real.
After reading that third message, I tried searching his name again through that same site, hoping that he logged in recently, despite the knowledge that he would never be online again. I cried looking at his picture. Not him, I kept telling myself. It 's not true.
But two years later, and here I am, running his name again through the search. I was faced with the same results. The same profile, the same testimonials. Nothing recently updated. No signs that his account has been recently opened by the owner. This time, however, I did a different search. I Googled him. I typed his whole name and clicked Google Search. There were only two results under his name. One was for an obituary catalog in a public library and the other was Find A Grave Search Results. I just trembled seeing his name under the category of those who already passed away. It was just another shot through my heart, through my mind, telling me--insisting to me--that he is really gone, and never coming back.
It did not stop there, I opened them both. The site that gave me more information was Find A Grave. I was even able to request for a photo of his grave. When I saw the photo, with his name clearly carved at the marbled stone, I could not help but cry. It was him--my last memory of him. It made everything so real. His death is no longer just a hear say. It is no longer just something people told me about. It was real. So real. As real as that shiny stone carrying his name, his birthdate, and the date when he died.
The date of death. It was even more shattering, when I found out that he died the day before I heard the news. (Actually, recently, I realized, after studying about timezones, that I found it out the same day that he died. One of my biggest day was also one of my saddest.)
I know it did not feel anymore like I died again. But it certainly still makes me wonder--makes me think about what could have been. I have so many of them now, the "what could've been's". But I'll never really know now. Reality does bite so hard. So hard that I shattered into pieces once again.
