they do not call it being in love or to love. love is a forbidden word. they are allergic to it. love makes them puke. love makes them stray away from each other. they are too inconsistent for love. some sort of an almost lover, but not quite. can’t stand to be friends, can’t stand being otherwise. somewhere in between of something but with them, there is no ultimatum.
sometimes he would disappear. for days, for weeks. months even. inconsistency at its best. wanderer wandering places. he takes his time. no rush. it’s not like she was waiting anyway. she never waited for him. inconsistent lovers don’t wait around on each other; they don’t really give a fuck about the other. they are shit with details. skirt around the exteriors, careful to not fall. the only thing he’s explored are the curves of her body, never the cracks of her heart. she knows insignificant shits like his favourite records, but never the stories behind them.
and when he comes back, she never really asks about his adventure. in fact, he never even tells her whenever he’s in town again. she’s okay with that. that is what wanderers naturally do. and her, nothing but a wonderer who is stuck in place. the kind that is chained to the ground with nostalgia, the kind that hurts but is too heavy to let go. so when he hops off from LAX and KLIA and some other airport she can’t be bothered to remember; she sits on her window sill and wonders if there is more to them than. this.
at some point of his life, he thinks he doesn’t really need her. so he purposely loses her number. but loses his mind instead when he ends up, this time, in her cramped bedroom with no bed. just a mattress. carelessly dumped in the middle of the room. he comments that his room looks way more decent than this. she snickers and tells him this is how the state of her mind looks like.
she lights a dunhill, empty cigarette boxes haphazardly strewn across the floor all forgotten.
“i thought you were quitting?”
she doesn’t answer. she doesn’t owe him any. and he’s okay with that. this unfathomable mess they are tangled in–this is what they are. perhaps this is all they will ever be. him, the inconsistent wanderer. her, with her inconsistent habits.
but not quite.