Sciamachy by Berlin


Sci·am·a·chy noun [sahy-am-uh-kee]: an act or instance of fighting a shadow or an imaginary enemy.


You see his name on your friends list

Regretting the fact that you weren’t online when he was, 27 minutes ago.

As if you would have said anything 

As if you could have even typed “hello”

You click on his name and sigh at the sight of his profile picture

Not just because he was adorable but also because you see him cuddling “Monster”

The Jack Russel terrier he had had until giving him up for adoption a year ago.

You remember your heart sank as you read his goodbye letter to him.

How much it hurt him to let go of a very smart, brave although often stubborn companion.

Which you know Jack Russel terriers are…

Not that you were particularly knowledgeable in dog breeds…

It’s just that you had time to pull up all the dog photos Google had and settled for the one that monster resembled the most.

You thought about asking him directly, but then again you wouldn’t want to re-open that wound…

Or cause one on you.

You hovered the cursor over the like button

And debated whether clicking it would be too incriminating

You settled for later and clicked on his photo albums instead.

You realize he takes a lot of selfies… another thing you found in common with him.

Aside from badminton, the sport that introduced him to you.

You remember being called to umpire his game.

You remember him mistaking the first letter of your name for M.

You remember correcting him and him shyly apologizing.

You smiled, letting him know it was ok.

He smiled back.

That was your last memory of your sanity.

You watched him playfully sing, smile and stare at you during the game.

You didn’t want to assume it meant anything…

So you just officiated the game keeping your eyes on his b… the ball.

You found his name on the score sheet and repeated it a hundred times in your head so you can find him on Facebook… as if forgetting it was even possible.

You typed his name, hoping that he was there and PRAYING he didn’t know how to adjust his privacy settings.

Because you don’t really plan to add him…

You don’t even plan to say anything.

You just wanted to observe…

To see if he is or was married.

To know where he lived… worked.

To find common interests.

Basically stalk him like the psycho you are in the comfort of your own bed

But still keeping the right to act like you weren’t the least interested when you see him next.

You remember freaking out one night when Facebook notified you that he had accepted the friend request you were certain you didn’t send.

You wanted to blame your sister who used your computer that morning,

You were waiting for her to answer your call when the culprit caught your attention.

You rolled your eyes, hung up and cursed at the quarter-full bottle of J.D. on your bookcase.

“You’ve done bad things before but this…” you shook your head in disapproval and took a swig of the perpetrator.

Weeks passed and you found yourself thanking Zuckerberg for never considering the “who viewed your profile” option.

He doesn’t need to know his profile was viewed 87 times today… and he DOESN’T need to know you were responsible for 74… 82 of those views.

You read all of his statuses, scanned all his photos

Mentally clicking “like” on all of them… never physically.

Not just because you were a hopeless coward… but also because he’ll find it weird if you liked his break-up post from 2009.

You have casual conversations with him in the gym

Never trying to prolong them or let them get personal

You catch him staring at you sometimes

He smiles awkwardly when you do…

You notice how he says goodbye to the whole group but singles you out with a direct “I’ll see you soon”

But you never think too much about these things.

These, for all you know, might all be in your head.

Even when he asked you if you were seeing someone when

He gave you a ride home last Friday.

He even asked if you are looking to date… but you never assume…

You never conclude… you just always hope that somewhere between his lines is a chance that this is mutual.

You would never dare confess, let alone ask if he felt the same.

Something in your gut confirms that there is a chance there.

But your gut, your booze-loving gut, had been wrong before.

He might just be the guy who is so irritatingly nice, sweet and friendly to everyone.

Or worse, the guy like the last one…

The guy who likes you, flirts with you and practically dates you but deep down knows he will never actually BE with you.

You rolled your eyes at the memory.

You’ve been around long enough to accept that not all men are gay

Not that you were ever confident enough to believe otherwise.

Life is not that complicated… if he wants you, he will let you know.

Unless he is as afraid of rejection as you are of course.

Unless he is as attached to his pride as you are to yours.

A round green thing appears beside his name indicating he was online.

Your heart beats a little faster.

You wrack your brains for something to say.

You refer to your last conversation.

You wanted to thank him again for the ride.

You wanted to ask him the same questions he asked you about seeing someone.

You type… in notepad, because even the slightest chance that he sees you typing is terrifying to you.

You make a draft.

And another.

You are pathetic like that.

And when you finally settle for the perfect message, “Hey”

You find that he had left… 4 minutes ago.

You exhale a sigh of disappointment and relief

You close your eyes and say “tomorrow”

You promise that tomorrow… this sciamachy will end

You convince yourself that tomorrow you will be braver.

Tomorrow you will win.

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