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THE HOST AND THE HABIT

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W hat Lacy remembered most were the unanswered calls and texts religiously sent once every day to avoid coming off as ‘thirsty’. He also recollected her gently touching his waist randomly in the midst of his mates during any outdoor events simply to get his attention. He enjoyed every bit of her shenanigans, but what he didn't seem to enjoy so much was that all she ever did was that. Feathery touch in public and private spaces to make him come alive a bit, and conversations about everything but how he really felt about her. She was going to come around, he told himself. No one really did the things she did with her eyes, mouth, and hands if they didn't feel a certain way towards the other person. Perhaps, she wanted to make the first move, like Prisca, his best friend’s formally sworn enemy, now girlfriend. But even then, the thought felt ludicrous. If he had to solicit her physical appearance time and time again until the thought of letting her go, no matter how painful, seeme...
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STILL STUCK IN YOUR WAYS

 Short Story

Photo: Pinterest


It was complicated, what we shared. We weren’t even a couple, but we did everything couples did. Shared playlists. Shared bed. Shared silence that screamed louder than words ever could. Late night drives with no particular destination in mind. Her legs on the dashboard, fumbling her bag for a lipgloss or a lighter. Her head on my chest during subtle storms, saying she could fall asleep to the beat of my heart. Her hands beneath my sweater, whispering how warm-blooded I was despite the weather. See, I always wanted to keep Egwene warm, but we had a thing for wrestling like foes. However, the good part was, we made up like hoes. Then proceeded to pretend we were just friends in front of the people we both knew. It was a kind of closeness one could easily mistake to be love. 


Or was it? 


‘Cause I often called it love, while she effortlessly named it ‘something’. That ‘something’ kept me captive for years. Hoping she’d change her mind someday to fit the raving emotions in my veins. Every time I got too close to Egwene, she’d flinch emotionally. Like I’d just bruised a fresh wound when all I’ve ever wanted to do is heal her. Like every soft thing I did was just a ticking time bomb and she was waiting for the explosion. So each “I love you” from me was accompanied with an “Are you sure?” from her. Like she was trying to convert my certainty into uncertainty. 


But I was sure. 

I’ve always been. 

Even when I was hurt, I was certain I loved Egwene. 


But love doesn’t survive on borrowed belief. Love that requires tests and proof like it’s a laboratory experiment isn’t love. It's cross-examination. It's court. It’s exhausting. So even when Egwene stared at me like I was her lighthouse, I knew she always thought I’d leave. Abruptly, just like her dad did. And no matter what I said or did, for the unknown, she’d always grieve. To Egwene, forever was simply a punchline. A recitation structured to remind you that nothing lasted that long. And so she quenched her belief. Shut herself to the world and me. Until my “I love yous” started to sound like an apology for an offense I never committed. 


The last time I told her “I love you so much it’s ruining me,” she didn’t say “Are you sure?” Instead, she’d said, “Maybe in another life.” I wonder why I couldn’t make peace with her decision the way she’d easily made peace with her past—me inclusive. 


We don’t talk anymore, me and Egwene, but out of habit, I let our favorite songs roll, sipping cappuccino in her favorite mug, sitting in the spot that was always ours in my room. Sometimes, I leave the windows open—like she fancied—on a windy night or when the stars are in full display. In all those moments, I think of Egwene. Of her long curly hair, neat fingernails, and soothing laugh that showcased her white teeth. On really quiet nights, I check my phone for a text I know would never come, just to wonder if she ever loved me at all. On loud ones, when I can barely hear my own thoughts, I know it doesn’t matter if she did. Because I did. And that love was real, even if what we shared wasn’t. 

Even if she never believed me. 

Even if she was the one to leave me. 

And even if she still owes me closure—which, to be frank, I don’t want anymore, I know I feel closer to her now more than ever through these rites of remembrance. 


BY PRECIOUS NELSON ESATE

preciousesate@gmail.com

blunttalesandcoffee.blogspot.com

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