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his feelings reach a boiling point, those suppressed what-ifs and compressed whys, going over that alarming degree of no returning, almost bursting, before he completely dissipates into nothingness, no longer existing.
something close to worthlessness. something so heartbreaking and gut-twisting and utterly ruthless, merciless in its judgement, heartless by nature, and po doesn't know what to do. he can't do anything but let these tears fall.
it's so pathetic. ironic. sadistic. everything feels like a slapstick comedy, but why isn't po laughing?
he looks at thame through the blurring mist in his eyes. the looming figure of earn comes to light, now glitching, distorting into familiarity, replacing those unfamiliar features with the shape of someone he once called a lover, and everything falls into pieces, never mended.
the rage comes in potent waves. fragments of tsunami and ambers of hurricane wash over po, suffocating him, pushing the stolen air out of his tightening lungs—and something inside him dies again.
the ocean of his tears. the riverbank of his recollections. they resurface without warning, without a sign. and it's back to square one anew.
because what does thame know about heartbreaks?
what does he know about those nights when po loathed himself for believing—for loving someone he thought he could have a forever with? what does he know about that endless mockery, those haunting voices in his head, clamorous thoughts and toxic aftermaths, whenever his gaze stumbles on the forgotten mug, the picture-perfect memories, the disappearing warmth on the vast bed, the loftier shadow escaping the realms of his humble four walls?
they leave po raw and naked. they stripped po from the safest cacoon of this ephemeral fairytale, now a painstaking reality—and po has to tiptoe around it, walking on broken glass and the destroyed shell of his dying love, bestrewn on the floor like a wildfire, blazing to the top of this whirring madness. the flying papers of EarnChop around his room cascaded like these neverending tears, blasphemous in its wake, snowfalls of grief and misery, now becoming pointless, no longer made from colours of vigour. what's the point?
what does thame know about love?
what does thame know about those mornings when po woke up with drying tears staining his cheeks, the puddle underneath his head was wet still, the seeping coldness in his hollowed heart while absentmindedly making a cup of coffee for two, never breaking the habit, never free from the auspicious guilt of still hoping—still wishing—that he could be better—earn would find no other. earn wouldn't leave him when he reached sky heights. he wouldn't go when the world outside this room was yellow and red and alluring—because those were their colours. those were once them.
in the hazy recesses of po's mind, earn was every shade of pink and all hues of purple. he was shimmering gold when happiest and dull blue when saddest. and po took everything out of earn to make him perfect—he soaked all of earn's colours for him to become someone new every day. someone invincible and attainable and presentable and attractive and successful—
but po was colourless.
amid those green streaks and brown sparks running in his system like crimson blood, they once belonged to earn and only earn, po was still this ugly acetone.
his promises—were they all sweet nothings, after all?
was i at fault? was i not good enough?
because what does thame even know about po?
"even if i weren't there, MARS's reputation would still be ruined because of you, wouldn't it?"
po didn't mean it. he didn't mean to project this detestation on others, definitely not on a stranger with a name. but thame feels like a splitting image of earn, in all of his self-centredness and ego and bone-chilling coldness—this silent wrath takes over the last ounce of hope, and po regrets nothing.
"what did you say?"
po scoffs.
"you're claiming that you don't want to ruin your group's reputation, but in reality, you just don't want anything to affect yours because i happen to know how selfish you are."
the world stops moving around him. they pause at this juncture of impending doom, where all heightened emotions finally transcend the roof of po's patience and tolerance, crackling like those screeching screams and desperate howls, all muffled with pristine knuckles clasped on his mouth, trembling underneath the freezing rainfall, thinking he could never be the same after earn—after he took everything from po and left him with nothing.
"you're just someone who, after becoming a little more successful than others, forgets that the people who've been with you also have feelings."
and the visions of earn reappear, no longer underwater. but po drowns in them as he has nothing to hold onto. nothing could save him now.
"they've never cared about how the people behind them feel," po momentarily stops, before he resumes, adding more venom to his words, hoping it would hurt and kill. "someone like you is exactly the type who never values those who've been on this journey with you."
po catches his breath, remapping the lost track of time by stepping closer, just an inch more, to look at thame, confront the ghost of earn, and salvage his unjust demise years back.
"be honest with me. how could you do that? when the opportunity suddenly came, you left those who'd been with you for so many years and got by alone. what about the things others did for you when you had more jobs coming in? aren't they meaningful to you, even a little?"
wasn't po enough? wasn't po enough for earn? couldn't po be the one standing next to earn as he secured another achievement? couldn't he be there to share the burden earn has to shoulder in the next step he embarked on? couldn't they celebrate all victories with hugs and kisses? couldn't earn still love him even if he wasn't the earn of yesterday, yet po was still the po of today? why did he leave po? why couldn't he stay? why couldn't they stay the same?
"you know what? what you've done makes it impossible for the people behind you to understand why they've wasted so many years with you, doing things for you."
and earn is now a shattered photo frame on the floor. cracks and dents along the edges. coffee stains on the surface. no longer beautiful, nowhere near perfect.
po stares ahead, now empty from everything that has been overflowing, and says, "you're so damn selfish."
there's a flicker of fury in thame's eyes as he retorts, "you have no right to say this while you know nothing."
po ruptures. he shatters. "i know! i know what kind of person you are! i also know how painful it is for those left behind."
because what does thame know about po wanting to strive and soar, be the respected director he has always ambitioned, have a career that he could boast about to his friends, be on the giving end instead of the receiving, worrying his parents less, finding genuine happiness without boundaries, without having to give and not take, not to self-destruct every second of the hour, without believing he isn't worthy of love?
"how about the person who has to leave them? don't you think that hurts too?"
what?
"to get to this point, do you think it has been easy?" the tremble in thame's voice, po fails to overlook.
"of course, it's easy to understand the pain those who get left behind get, but the one who does the leaving is just as hurt."
and thame exits the door with a thud. and everything feels empty again.
po stares at the floor. he glimpses at the set, bigger than life, but they can never occupy the aching sadness in his opened chest. the orange lights. the vacant chair. the long wire cords. and his gaze befalls the trails thame left for him to ponder—to contemplate—to understand—to forgive.
and po questions himself if he even knows what heartbreak is.