Inked Star

two.

The breakup was anticlimactic, and, truth be told, expected. We had been together for five years, and we mutually agreed to cut our losses. Or maybe that was just me. He wanted to settle—to get married and to have a family.

I didn't.

I knew I wasn't ready to enter that phase of my life. He didn't want my answer, and he said time was running out.

For whom?

"Then let's break up," I prompted.

I could still remember his crestfallen expression as he sat across me.

"Aster, just like that?" he choked out. I felt the sharpness in his voice; its bitterness pierced the air and made its way to my mouth. I tasted it in my tongue.

"I don't want to make you wait any longer," I said, fighting the lump that was already forming in my throat. "And I know I can't grant what you want, because I'm not ready yet."

"When will you be ready, then?" he pushed.

"I don't know," I confessed. "I don't think I'll ever be ready. This was what I told you before we committed, and you said you were fine with it."

"That was five years ago, Aster. I thought you'd change your mind—"

"How so?" I interjected. My cheeks were flushed, and my voice trembled. I couldn't meet him in the eye. Why did that trigger me?

He sighed. "I just...I sensed you had no emotional capacity in terms of handling intimacy, but I had this hope that you'd change."

I scoffed. "No emotional capacity?"

"What else is there to say?" he shot back. "You don't want to have a child. Isn't that selfish? You're already thirty. You refuse to take it a step further when someone proposes to advance. You shrink away when people get too close. You shrink away from me."

I bit the inside of my lower lip to keep myself from speaking. With tears welling in my eyes, I finally stared at him. I was furious, and I struggled to find the right words to say. How was choosing not to give birth selfishness? I laid down my boundaries from the very start, and he agreed.

"You're right," I said in utter defeat. "Let' s leave it at that. I'm selfish, and I am emotionally inept. You made the wise decision to break up with me."

He stood up to leave, but I held his sleeve just when he was about to walk past me.

"Wait," I said. I also stood up, slid the ring off my finger, and handed it to him. Before he could even register what had happened, I took my bag from my seat and walked away.

So it goes.

I didn't get the tattoo right after we separated. I opted to clean my room first—a subtle purging of our years together—and return whatever stuff he had given me. We terminated our joint account and canceled our arrangement with the wedding planner. Word got out, and both sides of our family started to interrogate us. I said we broke up. He said we broke up because I wasn't ready. They all had something to say, but their words bore no meaning to me. There was a tinge of truth to what we said, and there was no point in explaining.

For my mother, what I presented was an insufficient answer. She barged into my rented flat along with Calix, my older brother, and told me to go back to him and beg for forgiveness because what I was doing would inevitably lead to a life of desolation and loneliness. According to her, thirty was the age to get married, not to break up with someone. She said I had gone too far, and that I felt that way because I still wasn't sure of what I wanted. If I just stayed still, the dust would settle and I would feel okay. I found her words hilarious. She expected me to act like an adult while infantilizing my decisions.

"Let her be," Cal finally chimed in. "She's an adult making adult decisions."

"But to live without someone—"

"Aster, is that your choice?" he cut in.

I nodded.

"There you have it," he said with finality. "She chose it herself. There's nothing we can do."

Mom wanted to say more. She opened and closed her mouth like a goldfish. Calix's indifference and my defiance were clear indications that whatever she said would fall on deaf ears.

So it goes.

The season shifted from spring to summer. It was a humid day at that time, and the cicadas, with their cacophonous chirps, almost drowned the sound of the wind chime hanging on the door leading to the terrace. I sprawled on the tiled floor like a starfish, my back against the cool tiles as I stared at the ceiling. I looked to my side, and spotted a book under the coffee table. It was Kurt Vonnegut's novel, Slaughterhouse-Five.

I reached out for it, dusted it off, and placed it on the table. With a sigh, I closed my eyes, attempting to remember what the book was about. It had been almost a decade since I last read it, and I only did so because it was a part of our module. I knew it was an anti-war novel, but more than anything, what I remembered was how death meant nothing to the aliens in the story. At least, that was the impression I got.

So it goes.

The world didn't end when we called it off. The world didn't end when I became honest with myself, despite being scared. I carried this certain fear because, more than anyone, I was fully aware that my mentality was different from what was expected of me. I was conscious of my age, too. I thought my perspective would change over the years. I had this hope that if I spent more time with him, I would finally realize that I also wanted a family—a child. Instead, I became more convinced that motherhood was not for me.

And so, what we had had ended.

But the world didn't.

I didn't.

So it goes.

A month later, he got married.

So it goes.