waited for him to reach and fetch me.
It’s been fifteen minutes.
He told me he’d reach in five minutes.
I was rather frustrated.
Then he finally arrived.
He offered me the motorcycle helmet.
Why were you so late, I asked.
He was nonchalant. Not even a little hint of
guilt.
Oh..was watching tv, he said.
Watching tv? Why don’t you bathe, eat, nap then
come down here, I raised my voice.
I’m sorry, he said in a voice I never heard
before.
No explanation.
Nothing.
Just a simple sorry.
But it was the first time I’d heard him say
sorry.
Yes.
Oh well.
So I took the helmet.
And many times after that, he apologized for
being late.
Countless times.
He never gave the explanation.
And one day I couldn’t take it anymore.
Why don’t you ever explain why you’re sorry, I
asked, my temper boiling up.
I’m sorry, he said.
That was the 98th time he said sorry to me.
Why do you have to say sorry? Can’t you just
explain to me, I practically screamed at me.
I’m sorry, he said.
That was the 99th time he said sorry to me.
Let’s break up, I said. I’ve had enough of your
non-existent explanations.
And I left.
I lost all contact with him.
I never looked him up.
Neither did he look me up.
And a month later, I knew I was still in love
with him.
I couldn’t contain my feelings for him inside
anymore.
So I went to look for him.
I went to his school, and they said he had
stopped schooling for a month already.
I called his phone, and no one picked up.
I called his friend.
He’s in hospital now. He has congenitial heart
disease. Didn’t you know, asked his friend.
No, I said. Where is he now?
XX hospital, he replied and put down the phone.
I practically ran to the hospital.
He was there, face as white as could be.
I knelt down, crying, by his bedside.
Why didn’t you tell me earlier, I cried.
He opened his eyes tiredly, and smiled.
I’m sorry, he said.
Don’t say sorry, just don’t die. Please…I
haven’t forgiven you yet, I cried out, my tears
and sobs choking me.
And he closed his eyes forever.
I collapsed on his bed.
Why?
Why did you have to leave me so early?
His hands were tightly grasped to a bundle of
papers.
On the first one, he wrote: I didn’t mean to be
late. I’m sorry. I didn’t want to tell you that
I felt my chest hurt terribly when I stepped out
of the house. But I still made an effort to
come. Forgive me, won’t you?
On the second, he wrote: ……
On the third, he wrote: ……
I read through all of them, my tears never
stopping.
On the hundredth, there was a photograph
attached.
He was smiling as radiantly as he could, for me.
His face was white, but I could see the genuine
smile.
He wrote: I’m sorry, dear. I didn’t mean to
leave before you. I didn’t mean to make you cry.
I left because god didn’t give me a chance to
put a ring on your finger and say I love you.
You were the first girl I said sorry to, and the
only one whom I wanted to spend my life with.
Please, don’t cry. I don’t want to see you cry.
How could I not cry?
