You see those gentlemen clad in tailored suits and pure cotton shirts? Those who sport a neat hairstyle, a clean-shaven face and a smirk of victory. You know, the ones you often see on TV in your evening programs, the ones who often portray the fairly functional bastard who gets the girl. The kind of men your momma would encourage you to bring home for a sweet family dinner. I used to be one of those. Granted, that was a very long-ass time ago, but hey! History facts don't change just because a long time has passed. Time may pass, but the events remain etched in its folds. Written in bold fonts to match the magnitude of the event.

But what happens to historical monuments with time? They fade. They crumble. They disintegrate into a semblance of what they once were — a very far-fetched semblance that often requires the hands of a professional historian or archeologist to put the pieces back together in a quest to portray the closest image possible.

I'm speaking from experience here. It happened to me too. I disintegrated into a version that I couldn't recognize no matter how long I looked in the mirror. It was a phenomenon that was far from an update and very close to a downgrade. My image faded, and with it, my future, my reputation, my power, and everything I had taken for granted. A slap in the face if I ever was introduced to one. Now I was the type of lad your momma would tell you to steer clear from. A bum living off past glories. An unemployed bastard with a semi-functioning body who believed in 'go big or go home', and was set to become fully dysfunctional instead, drowning in alcohol, nicotine, and weed to take the edge off.

But things weren't always like this. No. In the past, I wouldn't have touched drugs with a ten-foot pole, even if my survival depended on it. Business requires a sharp head and an alert mind. Granted, I would drink a few glasses of the finest there was and then some, but I would never indulge from sunset to sunrise. I would reserve that behavior for the big events — the occasions worthy of celebration. My addictions and indulgences were limited to adrenaline and the rush it gave me when I climbed a mountain no one knew about. A guilty pleasure that often took me abroad and forced me to maintain my celibate status. No sane woman wanted any of this shit in her life, and I never wanted such sane women in mine, either. So the loss wasn't really a loss. But if you ask me on a deeper level, I have to admit that I regret the time I spent away from my sister, leaving her unattended and within the hyenas' reach.

If you ask me on a deeper level, I would admit that I should've been there for her instead of sitting in huge boardrooms and endless meetings.

Regrets. Ruthless bastards, these ones.

I've had a lot of them as of late. I often found myself drowning in 'what ifs' and 'could haves' in cheap pubs, surrounded by many I didn't know and doubted knew my story. One day, however, someone took an interest in my story, and that's how Inaya came into my life. That someone was her.

It was a few years after the incident. To be precise, it was on the anniversary of my sister's death. That night, I had taken matters to a higher level, indulged in drugs I didn't know the name of and cheap alcohol that purged my stomach of everything I had eaten that day. It wasn't my finest moment, I know, but maybe the way we met was the reason she didn't dump my ass, even though I was carrying the flaws of the entire planet. She knew what she was getting into right from the get-to-go. No false promises to embellish the product and boost sales; what you see is what you get.

It wasn't meant to last, but god, I was so glad it did. It was only meant to be a single tap — one-night experience fueled by one too many shots and drunken behavior that both parties were responsible for. When I woke up in lavender-scented sheets, I couldn't remember how I'd ended up there. But my nostrils and body were grateful. I could have ended up on the curb if I'd been lucky (or sober enough) to avoid the subway station and the atrocities that happened there at stupid o'clock. When we met up a few nights after in the same pub out of sheer coincidence, we made sure to recreate the events of the night we'd spent together, but with a sober mind and a present soul. There was a zing that had passed in the air the moment we locked gaze. A magnetic pull that I figured materialized from the presence of two lost souls who understood each other on a deeper level.

"The Pacific or the Atlantic?" She asked around the neck of her beer.

My eyes were already on her as she sat at the table in the corner of the pub, far away from the counter where I was sitting. So I didn't miss a beat when she dropped into a chair next to me, sipped from the beer she nursed, and looked me straight in the eye as if challenging me to miss the opportunity. "Not a thalassophile. Sorry to disappoint."

"Didn't seem like it a few days ago when you were playing with my bodily fluids, but I'll cut you some slack." She pulled out her cell phone and a world map appeared on the screen. "It's the Atlantic Ocean for me. Here, take a look; you might find something you'll like."

I humored her because two could play the game, and because her voice was so sweet, I wanted her to keep talking. It was like a lullaby, lulling me into a slumber that wasn't induced by drugs or alcohol. A serenity that I needed. Ached for it. "Hmm, nothing to like in a vast landless blue. Don't see why the hype." I handed the phone back to her and watched her look at me with nonjudgmental eyes. With the kind of interest that is often bought with money and power but never with the kind of despair I drowned in. She looked at me intently, and so did I, until she broke the spell.

"But you like me, and you'll like the Atlantic too because it's part of the package. No refund; no exchanges."

I wasn't wrong. It was a connection.

Because Inaya didn't leave after our second night. Our RDVs were no longer limited to pubs and around booze. They evolved into outings where she photographed buildings and oceans and I held her camera bag and tripod. And then, they turned into dates, which, granted, didn't fall on the traditional shelf, but were very close to the trademark. We'd meet in random places, talk about random stuff, and with her, I found myself genuinely cracking a laugh, even though I'd thought that was impossible after everything I'd been through. I blamed it on her smile. It was infectious. Pure. The serene type that you couldn't but admire. But what comes after admiration?

Love. That is.

She was right and wrong at the same time. I didn't just like her and her Atlantic Ocean, I loved her.

I didn't realize it when it happened. It was a foreign concept to me, which led to confusion and, dare I say it, anger. But Inaya guided me through it. She was patient and had enough light in her to shed some on my darkness. I didn't know why she put up with my emotional handicap. I really was so clueless that I wondered if she had some kind of fucked up savior complex that made her think she could save a man and bring the best out of him. But as the days passed, her blue wallpaper forced me to fight the landlord from kicking us out over the late rent check. I wanted to save that house and the memories it hosted, and it had been so long since the last time I wanted to save anything, myself included. The fish tank that took up half the space in her living room and that she loved dearly became something I took care of when she was at her night classes, and it had been so long since I had taken care of anything, myself included. So I took odd jobs and paid the rent, something I never imagined I could do. I, who used to hire people, became an employee just to ease the burden on her shoulders, and that's when I realized that I was whipped beyond saving. That I had left the liking stage behind my back and was striding in the path of love instead.

Now I was veering off into another area that I didn't want to explore. Now, I was walking through yet another loss.

See, there's something about alcohol. When you get so used to it, you miss the warnings about your intoxicated state. You drink and drink and drink, and poof, the bottle is gone and a new one replaces it like a cheap fling — a bird willing to be used for one night, settling for two orgasms and a pre-arranged rage. It won't be the last time. Deep down, you know that. It will call for a third, because after climaxing, you crave the next blow. You'd get stuck in this vicious cycle of thinking you need more, so much more, and that maybe the alcohol has given its power to you and pulled the white flag, when in reality, nothing goes beyond anatomy and greed. Two simple matters that are backed up with facts and supported by studies. So you don't really feel it when you lose control. You don't feel it when you start tattering on hallucination; when your speech becomes slurred, and your coherence evaporates. When you're an avid drinker, you no longer realize that the room is spinning, that voices are somehow muffled by your rapid heartbeat, and that your ability to perceive your surroundings has dropped to a level unfit for any creature with a pulse and a nut-shaped brain. And although I've been sober for three months — by duty and not by choice; they don't serve you booze in the slammers — I haven't lost the characteristics of a drunk.

So it was no surprise when Jeon Jungkook, the one constant in my life after Inaya who didn't drop my ass off after my downfall, had to keep repeating whatever shit he was spewing again and again for me to finally realize that I wasn't sitting alone in this shitty, cheap bar surrounded by countless green, empty Heineken bottles. His image was distorted, so blurry it looked like a photo taken with an old Nokia. I squinted my eyes and really tried to read his lips to understand what he was saying because, between the loud chatter and the shitty EDM, I really couldn't make out what he was saying.

After Inaya left me standing in front of that huge fucking billboard, I went back to the bus stop we'd left behind in merit of taking her car, and straight to business I went. The ride took forty minutes and two bus changes before I reached the city, and then I wandered aimlessly, looking at the people, the street, and the life that was still buzzing with all sorts of emotions, though I felt none of them. Just void. A huge, painful void. A detachment if I ever saw one. A lost connection that came long before the first sip of spirit reconciled with my blood. It always amazed me how the world didn't give a fuck about your condition, good or bad. A middle finger shoved right into your face, reminding you that you are nothing more than a small particle in a vast universe. So I looked for a place where I could settle like the little speck of dust that I was, and that place was this shithole of a bar that has seen more faces than the Louvre while I remained loyal to my seat from early in the afternoon until — what time was it again? Definitely very late, given that the sun had bid goodbye and the night had started its shift.

"You need to pull your head outta your ass, buddy. You just shat on the only thing you have any semblance of belonging to. What makes you think you can tell her what to do and what not to do? Like, seriously. The woman has done everything she can to give you your life back and you have the gall to judge her means? I'm racking my brain here tryna understand why you feel entitled to dictate her life when she's obviously the one putting up with your shit like you're her child and not her man. For fuck's sake, Yoongi! Have you even wondered how hard it must have been for her to do what she did — to make a decision when you were clearly out of options?"

Jungkook and Inaya were tied at the ankles. A typical "buy one get another for free" deal. But instead of a shampoo and conditioner— the typical package of this type of special deal — she got herself a boyfriend and his friend, who became her BFF. I liked to think that I brought her something positive in the midst of my endless negativity. She laughed with Jungkook, and she laughed with me too. I don't want to be pigeonholed as a completely fucked up boyfriend, thank you very much. But their laughter was lighter, brighter, and everything an honest friendship would douse your life with. So it was no surprise when I realized that Jungkook knew what had happened between me and Inaya this morning. She must have been completely devastated to have sought support from this sucker.

"You rumble like a bitch, Jungkook, and I'd rather listen to my demons than listen to you preach. Spare me and fuck off. Muchas gracias."

"Bummer! I was planning on recording my monolog and giving it to you for Christmas seeing how you will not receive any gifts now that the only person who actually cared about you finally realized she had better things to do with her time and energy."

"Don't feel so bad. I think I can live without your gift or your presence, for that matter."

I instructed the waiter to get another bottle and Jungkook gave me a disgusted, silent look. I should hand it to him; the look alone spoke louder than his voice. "Look at the state you're in. What you're trying to accomplish or prove here is beyond me. It's been years, Yoongi. Years. Life goes on, and people move forward, and you're still stuck in a past so distant, and in mistakes that are irreparable, it's not even funny. Look at me, I lost my job, did I die? Breaking news: I didn't. Inaya lost her parents and since then she's been struggling with all sorts of struggles and every dream she's had has been shattered in dramatic fashion. Did she die? No, we survived, and so should you." Jungkook was yelling now. Maybe he finally realized that I've gone deaf and considerably numb.

I fought the fog of intoxication and looked at him — really looked at him. I really didn't see where his brazenness was coming from right about now. And in my defense, I tried, hard. Did he really think we were standing on the same level? And if so, where did he get this idea? I don't want to be misunderstood here. I loved Jungkook — well, dropping the L-bomb for a friend would put me in a questionable place, but still. We grew together, me and this wanker. The only thing that separated us was our choice of education. He followed his father's path and so did I. I studied business management abroad— Yale; of course, I wanted nothing less than an Ivy League education — and he opted for a similar choice, but domestically — Seoul University— to study law. Other than that, we were pretty inseparable. We made mistakes about the size of the sun together and amended them in our own unique way also together.

But Jungkook didn't watch his life crumble before his eyes. Jungkook didn't lose his sister because he tried to protect her from her bad decisions. Jungkook didn't have to take the guilt of living thanks to his dead sister, with one of her organs, no less. Jungkook and I shared many things, but my tragedies weren't one of them.

"It's funny you should say that." I lit a cigarette, ignoring the rules that prohibited smoking indoors simply because this place didn't abide by such laws, and turned my full attention to him. "Because you think your suspension is similar to my losing every single shit I owned, myself included? Well, let me enlighten you on this one. It isn't. As a matter of fact, it's not even close to it. So here I am asking you again; spare me the BS, please, and be on your way."

"I will be on my way all right. After I take you home, that is." Jungkook, forever the fickle wanker, drained the Heineken bottle without leaving a drop behind, and forever the gentleman, he burped right after, just to remain true to his nature. "And just so I can say I tried to the end: Your victim mentality is growing on you, Yoongi. That shit has settled in your bones like cancer. I'd suggest therapy, but you seem to have romanticized this feeling so much that it's hard for you to let go of it. Still, I'm gonna try. Why? Because you disgust every fiber of my being when you look like a weak bastard."

"And remind me again, what compelled you to subject your fibers to such painful torture? I must have missed that detail. Gotta excuse me; the music is loud around here." I stubbed out my cigarette and propped my elbows on the back of the seat.

"And it's me you call a bitch," he scoffed, "I came here to bring you tofu and opportunity. Considering there shouldn't be any room for food in your guts with the liquid you've swallowed, I'd give you the latter." The motherfucker lit a cigarette, and I pointed this out so the similarities between us could be brought to light— and continued. "My excuse of a father wants to have a word with you. He says you'll like what you'll hear."

I wanted to tell him to go fuck himself and his dad while he was at it, but I decided against it because I didn't have the energy and because I respected these people despite everything. They were there for me — for my family — in a time when everyone else chose to ignore that we once existed. I got up, grabbed my phone and said before I left the place, "Pass on my regards and tell him I will see that we meet in the near future."

"Man, I said I came here to take you home." Jungkook shouted as I reached for the door.

"Don't bother. I don't have a home anymore."

To say it was pissing rain would be a fucking understatement. As I stepped outside into the furious weather, I realized that my shirt and broken vans didn't stand a chance against the tears of heaven. Thankfully, the sky was at least good at exteriorizing its feelings. Some of us would like to do that, but can't, even if our sanity depended on it. The dizziness hit hard, as if the cold wind served to wreak havoc in my stomach as the world spun around me. I didn't make it past two blocks before I slammed my palm against a streetlight, lowered my head, and blatantly emptied my stomach. A bonus of humiliation was exactly what the doctor ordered.

Once my body was sure there wasn't a drop of alcohol left in my stomach, I continued my walk in the pouring rain, shoving my hands in the pockets of my jeans and letting my feet drag me through the dark alleys on autopilot without asking my brain if what I was doing was logical. It certainly wasn't. But then again, I stopped following logic a long time ago.

Another wise word to the interested: When loss is imminent, you feel it. It has that tangible smell that attacks your nostrils. A rancid smell. A toxic feeling. Just like life and irony and fate and whatever the fuck pulls the strings of our lives as it sees fit. And as I stood drenched in front of the house that held memories of something so pure, so acutely innocent and real, watching, and expecting and apologetic beyond belief, I realized that loss was after me with all its might. With all its deadly weapons and all its agonizing regret.

My shirt clung to my body and my soaked hair dripped into my eyes, supporting the salty drops that drenched my face as much as the rest of my being as I spent the rest of the night rooted to my spot, looking at the still-lit bedroom we shared and feeling that I had lost it. Lost the warmth of that house, just as I had lost the warmth of my body in this unforgiving weather. That I had finally lost it all.

Lost her.

votes and comments are highly appreciated xo