I have written you letters, countless of them. If only you had persevered to look, you would have found them quite easily. They are now creased and stained with time, these muted lovelies whose souls are reverberated by the deafening magnitude of their faith.

Then perhaps, there will never be the need for these endless questions. And just as well, we wouldn't have the need to dodge answers like bullets.

What do you call that stage, where honesty in black and white is fiction and white lies are brutal as deceit is kind?

I have written you lines to songs I had hoped you'd write the music to. But I guess your chords are as broken as the messy smudge of ink that refuses to come off from my skin.

And you used to write me, I know. You used to tell me of your dreams and hopes and I would know where your sighs were by just tracing my fingertips along the imprints of your pen. You used to know my dreams, too.

But now we're here, tragically trying to forge a friendship that deserves a spit in the eyes and yet, ironically, we persevere. And I don't know why.

I am tired. Physically and emotionally. I can feel my awareness to things around me go numb and I don't like being indifferent and unavailable to people who really need me during times when I am undoubtedly needed.

I cannot remember how we got to where we are but as hard as I try to recall, I can never recollect the time where we became such chums...and I still don't think we are.

Indulge me in my selfishness.

I don't really care about your petty whines about how you messed up your college life by wasting your parents' hard-earned money. I don't care how many parties you've crashed nor how many times you used to bar-hop every Fridays. I just don't. So please keep your distance. You are breathing my air.

Indulge me in my selfishness.

I am tired of pretending like I feel sorry for you because in my own rotten and selfish world, I am cruel and vile enough to harbor a smile every time you tell me he broke your heart. Yes, I am not your friend. I cannot stress that enough for you. You never deserved him, in the first place. A couple of weeks in bed together doesn't come close to the number of years I have to bleed for him because of stupid girls like you. Can't you tell the detachment in my voice or trace the nonchalance in my words? We just happened to love the same boy. But I am not your friend.

Indulge me in my selfishness.

Why must you think that everything's about you? Perhaps, I should have been heartless in the crudest way I know. If I tell you that you were never part of the grand design, that you just happened to be there and was hitched due to the convenience you provide, would you then leave me alone? If I tell you and let you read everything he's said about you, how ironically little you mean to him, just a frill or a snag in a rather smooth silk of his life (that you have now completely ruined single-handedly), would you then wake up and see that I was never your friend?

Indulge me in my selfishness.

I can never be the same person for you both. If I am an ethereal being, bursting with iridescent charms for him, just as so, I am the extreme monster for you.  So why am I not telling these to your face?

Indulge me in my selfishness.

I am dead-tired of people like you. If I believed in reincarnation, I doubt I'd still want to have anything to do with you in my next life. I don't even hate you. Read my lips: I - JUST - DON'T - CARE.

So please, please. Indulge me in my selfishness.

Sometimes, we have to lose the people we love most in order for us to realize how much they mean to us.