You Were My 11:17 Wish

Allef Vinicius/ Unsplash

I started to make a wish on 11:11 when I realized it was actually 11:17, and I had just misread the last digit. That’s what loving you felt like.

I never intended to dive head first into that game with you. But they should’ve seen your smile after three shootings of Jose, and I can’t put into terms for my friends the way your limbs wrapped around my waist like God stimulated them exclusively for that purpose.

There was this feeling of possibility in the air exclusive to those dark, warm summer nights that felt like nirvana. I didn’t intend on loving you, but late night infatuation begin to disguise itself after a while, doesn’t it? And who was I to object?

You’d sit on my bed and call me beautiful from all regions of the room. I should’ve noticed when you were busy on your phone minutes later.

You ensure, I used to hate the girls you betrayed my trust with. I’d find their social media accounts, drink in their faces, their lives, I’d know their names. Stomach careening while I scrolled.

It wasn’t until a month ago that I realise I never detested these girls at all. I detested you. I detested the nights where I was awake at 4 wondering why I hadn’t heard from you. I disliked the nights I was up at 5, wondering why you didn’t wishes to publicize our relations. And at 6, because why was that random daughter commenting on your scenes calling you “babe”? 7, because why wasn’t I enough? God, why wasn’t I enough?

On the nights where alcohol would make our veins, and tomorrow morning was a mere suggestion, I recollect praying you for an answer to that question.

But have you ever seen someone who can’t enter into negotiations with their own remorse? Do you know what kind of brute that is? Your voice would create, yelling,’ shut the hell up or get the hell out.’

I’d see your eyes soften for maybe the quickest second, a sad son trapped inside a hulk-like stature.

Minutes afterward you could be in bed snoring while I muffled sobs on your bedroom floor. Our favorite routine. Whose mom taught us that bruises only received from bloody fists?

I think I forgave you for not being the person I dreamt you to be when I forgave myself for remaining long past knowing you weren’t. You can’t live carrying a heaviness like that.

I sealed it in an envelope with a kiss and sent it on its way, hoping that maybe the love I share with the next guy will be more like 11:11 and less like 11:17.

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