The 12th (Night of Independence)
by: Raphael

It was getting late.

It was J’s birthday party — the 12th, day of independence. Work was off that day, I had nothing to do. I knew I should come, with high hopes that you would, too. It has been two and a half years since the last of times I saw you.

You were there. You looked so differently that my eyes barely recognized you, but you had something you could never outgrow. Was it your wide gaze? Was it your captivating presence? None of those mattered that night, I just knew it was you.

I first met you way back freshman year in college. Brief text messages of usual greetings quickly went to lengthy calls in the deep night, professing love and everything else. It was followed by late evening city strolls walking you home, morning surprises on your front door, train station parting kisses and the cliché holding hands in public (which we both thought was sweet nonetheless). Certainty was written over your hazel eyes, but they turned into a duller shade of brown as I stared a little longer. Where did all its color go?

My gaze followed your footsteps all night that night. You finally pulled the glass door and approached the unaccompanied balcony. You lit a cigarette upon glancing at the mid-June night sky, down to the hushed streets of this sad city. Silently, I walked towards the far end of that balcony, adjacent to where you stood. Right there and then, our eyes met once more. You were surprised. You did not realize that a wisp of your past was in the same room as you all night long.

“I’m sorry.”, shakily, you said as I walked slowly towards you.

I did not return a reply right away and tears unexpectedly rushed in. I did not want to show you I was hurting yet they poured incessantly.

It has been years since you called it quits. The fading color in your eyes was a precaution of the things to come. I should've known. You told me we wanted different things. You asked for freedom — to figure out who you were outside of us and who you were without me. Wouldn’t you find yourself while you’re next to me?

You insisted and gave me all your reasons, so I had to set you free.

Your skin did not feel anymore like a map of the places I’ve touched. The palms of your hands did not anymore trace like the roots of the plants I have sown from our youth. Your eyes have lost the bright hazel color you painted my soul with.

Eventually, I saw you in the arms of another. I provided you the freedom you longed for at the expense of my peace, yet what came back to me were shackles of resentment that held me captive for years. I knew I was long over you and what was, but the scars it left me still resurfaced in my skin time and time again.

“It’s okay.”, I said in reply, shakily, too. My eyes allowed more tears to fall.

I realized that you were still the familiar sense of home — the one I would always know and remember. It’s like you never left, but you did.

In the isolated balcony, perched across the hazy skyline of that one summer night, it was time to break free from the chains that bottled up my bitter heart. It was time that I also gain my own freedom — two and a half years after you had yours. I knew it would not be by inflicting you the same wounds by letting vengeance swallow me whole. Perhaps, this time around, forgiveness is my freedom.

Your half-finished cigarette was wedged between your fingers as I walked through the exit door. In the silent breeze of the night, I glanced at you once more with a tinge of longing. At the same time, I also sighed with relief knowing that my heart gained freedom that was long overdue.

It was never too late.