Parting Sunset

by Thea Monica S. Lacambra

Everything is set in motion. There seems to be no other way around the circumstances that have brought me to the airport. I am talking about numbers: nine days of radio silence between a man and a woman, five hours of travel from North to South, and forty minutes of farewell.

I may have endured the back-stretching ride paired with cold airconditioning, but the moment I hop out of the bus, I stand warm under the afternoon heat of the sun. Nothing Metro Manila weather cannot fix. I run toward the covered pathway that leads to the terminal.

It takes me another sweat-inducing walk to reach the café. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee wafts through the entrance. I watch the barista calling orders upon orders and customers rushing to the counter. One step. Two steps. Three steps. Then a halt. I survey the area and spot Rohan in a cozy nook. He notices me immediately but doesn’t wave nor smile.

I do not give him the signature pat-and-squeeze on the arm.

He does not give me a gentle pinch on the cheek.

I am rather surprised by Rohan’s choice to sit across the table. I strangely feel far, isolated, almost detached. We used to be inseparable, side-by-side, and we loved the close proximity. I suppose today is different.

The distance allows a better view, which is new to me. I can see Rohan well from afar. He looks calm. I catch each and every detail about him: the nifty gray sweater that fits him impeccably, the black hair styled to an undercut, the peppered stubble right above his lips. He's the same person I met a year ago, except that he will be out there tomorrow, strolling down streets I have never crossed, growing into the person he was destined to be.

Silence lingers.

Where do I begin? “Are you okay?” is borderline inappropriate. I have been told it is insulting to ask that question to somebody who is clearly going through a rough time—and who will probably suffer from jetlag. “How are you?” is not much of an option either. He does not have a choice after all. There are family matters that I will never quite understand. I have let things be only because I am not in the position to speak as though I know what is best for him. “Good luck!” sounds like an email sign-off. It is sincere. I do not wish him ill, although he thinks I am angry. I have seen every dangerous type of anger—anger out of betrayal, anger out of hurt, anger out of injustice. However, anger is often confused with despair.

Last night, I imagined the worst-case scenario: I would come here with a box of memorabilia and throw it to the ground. I would not scream but I would tell him not to contact me again, then I would walk away. None of that happened. I hated the thought of being left behind. Numbers stuck with me: over ten thousand miles apart, fifteen hours behind. I mourned the future where I could not share moments of victory and defeat with Rohan. In the back of my mind,

I leave Rohan free to watch the crowd and don’t force a conversation to pop the bubble in the air. The clock ticks closer to the point of no return. I don’t have a bittersweet, tear-jerking goodbye speech prepared. I’m not here to pay him thanks.

Rohan’s hand travels to mine, fingers tracing patterns across the skin. Something inside me shatters. I stare back at him helplessly. There was nothing more I could do, nor did he.

I remember the calm and quiet with him, often shared under a mound of thick blankets or a pair of steaming mugs on the kitchen island. I remember the moonlight dappling bare shoulders that have rescued me from the deep waters and carried me back to the shore. I remember words spoken in between breathy pauses, soft yet loud enough to make me quiver. I remember everything and everything about him.

At eighteen, I fell for a girl who had a pretty smile and a big heart. She reminded me of stars—bright, shining, unreachable. Yet, she saw the world in different colors. I learned an important lesson from Papa then. “It is really hard to let go,” he told me. “But if letting go means freeing yourself from the agony of love, you are giving yourself a chance to experience the ecstasy of loving someone again.”

Papa’s voice echoes.

I gently withdraw from Rohan’s grip. He scratches his temple. I open my bag and grab an envelope out of the inner pocket. I slip it across the table without a word. If he reads all the lines, he will know why I have decided to come here, and if he reaches the bottom of the page, he’ll understand enough.

Rohan glances over the digital clock for the third time. He sends me a remorseful look. I respond with a nod. In less than a minute, we were out of the café.

There are patches of men and women milling around the airport. I follow Rohan near the boarding gate. The world fades before me. I feel like the weight in my chest has doubled, tripled even.

Rohan stops walking. He gazes down at me. I fight the urge to pull him in for a hug. I swallow hard, trying not to step forward and lower my defenses.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

It is funny how such a short sentence leaves room for more questions, more expectations, and more disappointments. I am slowly learning to move past situations that have scarred me. Yet. where do I put the parts that one apology can’t fix? There is no comfort attached to the words I have heard frequently enough to lose their meaning.

I expect Rohan to tell me to wait for him, but he does not.

“You may go.”

“Rohan,” I say. “Please take care.”

He vanishes into the crowd until I can no longer see him from where I'm standing.

I proceed to the exit, where I find the view of the sun setting on the horizon. The light blinds me. I squint, and in the blur of my vision, I start counting the days ahead of me. A year? Two years? Five years? There are no promises, no countdowns, only wishes over candles that may or may not come true. F

KATHA