The Day I Died

Maybe it's just me.

When I saw what I saw, my world crumbled. Thoughts running through my mind, telling me all things bad, then telling myself how this is not what is seems to be. How is it that a simple act of dropping something into the bin can have such an effect on me? Did I put unnecessary pressure on her? I haven't said anything. I don't expect my feelings to be reciprocated. Neither do I expected my effort to be thrown away, as though without a thought given.

Yes. It is a one-sided affair and I should have foresaw what just happened. No. It does not feel OK. I have feelings too. Surely I can feel pain, hurt, disappointment. My face says OK but look deeper. I'm not. You can come straight to my face and tell it to me in my face. Hints don't work. Maybe I should just ask. If you don't like it, say so. If you are not ready, say so. If anything, say so. I can stop. I'm too chicken to ask.

I hate it how I cannot cry my heart out there and then. I hate it how people assume I am always happy and cheerful. I hate it how I cannot shout out to the whole world there and then because I need to maintain my professional standards. I hate it.

A little part of me just died. Along with it, a little bit of my happiness.