I know this moment.

A flickering one. But damn it, it was a warm one.

It wasn't a multitude of memories containing the red, green, and blue LED lights wrapped around a plastic tree, while opening your Christmas gift, but rather, it was a peaceful moment when you're going to someone else's house.

As the winter began, and the headphones that I always wore comforted me on the journey in the jeepney to your city, it blasted one song, always: Merry Christmas, Please Don't Call by Bleachers. In the amihan, I could wear my jacket on the way. All I could hear as the jeepney was travelling through curves and roads was the song blasting through my ears, not minding the rumbling of the engine and the whispers of the people beside me.

After I got out of the jeepney, it was a short walk. I could go many ways, but it was still to you. I remember the school on the way, painted with a greyish blue, much like what I'm feeling when I go to his house. I remember the restaurant which I only tried once, and of course, the white gate and the vintage car in your home, with dogs that barked at me when I first arrived, but soon recognized my presence.

Why do I still remember?

Why do I keep doing this to myself?

At first, time felt strange. Calm, but at the same time, uncanny. I remembered everything I saw there, from the large television where my classmates played Tekken to the F1 lego car proudly displayed beside it. I could hear the sound effects of the TV blast through the living room, but I was unfazed. Some of my classmates were doing their part as part of a performance task, while some were in the next room, playing songs with the instruments that he had. What were they playing? I really don't know, and I didn't want to care.

They all felt warmth, while I only felt the coldness of it all.

The thing is, every time I went there, I died slowly. I confided it to one of my classmates, and she knew. I didn't talk to her that much, but it was oddly comforting that she knew why I didn't want to go here anymore.

It seems that everyone knew.

I mean, it was an open secret. It was no secret that I was in love with my classmate who owned the house. It was also no secret that I was no ‘classmate’ of theirs—I was there as a discarded novelty to laugh at whenever they could. And him? He was no exception.

I wanted to break. I just couldn't. It would ruin my decaying reputation even more. And the fact that I was in love? That made it even worse. I wanted to write a letter. I wanted to leave. I already knew I was being used, much less by him, but why couldn't I leave? Why couldn't I have the guts to believe it?

Why couldn't I run?

He was the golden boy of the class. He knew how to play any instrument. I mean, he was gifted, I'll admit that. He was also made the butt of the joke; I remember that one time when his friends chained me to him. I thought he'd understand me there, but I was completely wrong.

As the rain bellows over me while I'm writing this, so do my feelings for you.

When I got away from that home, either slowly walking or running away; a soft breeze always welcomed me alongside the grey and orange sunset, congratulating me that I survived another day being left out and being suffocated.

This'll be one year since I had a Christmas being in love with you. At that time, I just wanted a ticket off your gaze. I just wanted to get out of the circus that you and your friends created. I just wanted out of this. Now, I do.

This'll be the last that you'll hear of me. I'll still appear in your viewpoint, but you'll never get to hear my voice unless it's from far away. You might hear my name in the halls of your friends, laughing and ridiculing me, but you'll never hear your name escape my mouth.

I will forever know the way to your haunted home, but I will never know the way to your wretched heart.

Here's a final message for you; you don't deserve any more of my words, but alas, I'm writing this:

Golden boy, even though you were never mine, you were awful every time.

I would rather burn forever than enter a cold room, like how you have treated me.

The time here is strangely calm, and my anger still presides;

however, I can't help but feel sorry.

I can't help but feel sorry for my past selves, who let himself compartmentalize, losing his self;

I can't help but feel sorry for you, as you needed me for your own good.

You left me on the line, avoiding me when it felt convenient.

I still flickered like a desperate light there, nearly dying.

In my eyes, you were magic in the rhythm that you'd play;

however, you were witchcraft; out to hex and curse me.

I still regret it: how I forced myself to stay and show up.

Even though nothing could save me from the ghosts of my regrets.

Just know that every time I was there,

I died slowly, breaking pieces of my heart of glass, as you played chess with your friends.

So, cheers to us for surviving each other,

even though I still had scars.

Sometimes, I still miss you, and I still want to wish the best for you,

so I will wish you a Merry Christmas, but please, if in the slightest chance that you felt sorry, please don't call.

Sayonara, my ‘angel’, as you b

roke me like a glass doll.

With a bitter regret,

Fishbait

The Frontman