Happy Endings

She asked for a last date. I agreed. She had three requests.

“Can we have our last date for an entire day?” She asked.

I said we could. We’ll spend the day together, present in the moment.

“Can we act like the old days?” It was her second request. I agreed. I said I’d treat her the way I did back in college. Back when we were in love beyond humanly possible and we believed we’d live a lifetime together.

“Thank you.”

“What’s the last request?”

She hesitated. “I’ll tell you during our date.”

It was a quiet morning. Yellow sun, blue sky. A few clouds hovered in the distance, ready to filter the heat at noon.

We strolled to a pine tree-filled park. We’d spot a jogger or two, but we mostly had the park to ourselves. We spread our picnic mattress, ate some sandwiches and cookies, watched a movie.

An old coworker called. He asked if I could shoot his wedding the following week. It was summer. The season of weddings. Ironic times for a videographer on a breakup. “Add another thousand,” she said. “He’s rushing. He’ll say yes.” I thanked her for the additional income.

After the movie, we moved to a shaded area and sat on a pair of abandoned swings.

“You know, I’ve had a really hard time looking for help online,” I started.

“What sort of help?” She asked.

“Sincere, empathetic advice for people trying to move on from long-term relationships.”

She smiled.

“The top Google results are dry, SEO-focused listicles or Ph.D. content,” I continued. “And the personal essays are written by people from 1 or 3-year relationships and they mostly broke up over problems we’ve already overcome in the past. The more ‘mature’ pieces are usually about divorce. And they assume it ended because of abusive, manipulative, toxic reasons.

Isn’t there another long-term relationship that ended without glaring red flags?”

She thought for a while. Then handed me a saved article on her phone. “Maybe this could help.”

I smiled. “I guess I wasn’t the only one googling advice.”

That night, we checked in at a roadside hotel. We made love like it was our last night together. Because it was. Why do we enjoy something most when we’re about to lose it?

We returned to the pine tree-filled park the following morning. We visited an abandoned, yellow mini-bus, ordered some kikiam from a nearby stall, and sat in the passenger seat.

“An old friend advised me to write what I want to say because I might not say it all in person,” she began. “So I wrote while you slept.”

She handed me her phone. The screen displayed a word file. I looked and hesitated. Then I started reading.

Love is imperfect because we are imperfect.

We meet someone who kindles a flame with us.

We let them in. We become vulnerable. We get hurt.

Maybe we hurt them too. Maybe the flame will die.

It's all part of love and life.

We lose people, relationships, parts of ourselves.

But the love we had; the truths we discovered; the happiness we experienced; the life we shared—These are unequaled.

The losses never outweigh the gains.

Even if there is pain. Even if things don't work out. Even if there's a little scarring in the end.

It's still worth it.

It will always be worth it to love.

In the afternoon, we visited the city’s public park and I noticed some very peculiar bikes. The park had stalls that rented bicycles; BMX, tri-wheels, pedicabs, and the “lovers’ bike”; a two-seat bicycle, one person rides in front while the other sits behind.

I didn’t know how to balance a bicycle. I never learned. I was tempted to make her drive the lovers’ bike. I’d sit behind and put my arms around her waist. We’d ride in the sunset as autumn-colored leaves fluttered in slow motion. But… no.

That’s when I saw the “double bikes”: two bicycles, welded together in the middle by a metal pipe. Really.

We thought it was weird until we saw four bikes stuck together, in a square formation, driven by four laughing friends. I guess I’m not the only adult who can’t balance a bicycle.

We rented the double bikes and drove around the park. Cruising in these marvels of innovation, I realized I haven’t used a bicycle for almost a decade now. Even weirder, “10 years ago” no longer meant childhood days.

Time certainly moves fast.

We biked until dark. Then we strolled to a cafe, a few minutes from her place. We ordered desserts and hot matcha green tea with milk.

“I’ve been having plenty of dreams lately,” she said.

“What have you been dreaming of?”

“Memories. Very old memories.”

She sighed. “I can remember the details. I was in a red hoodie. You were in your brown jacket with blue lines at the sides. The one you eventually gave me. It was so late at night. It’s amazing they allowed you to do it.”

“Thankfully, the teachers didn’t get in the way,” I chuckled. “I remember one of my co-conspirators. When we arrived at the school gate, she came to me, barely able to hide her excitement, and she whispered, ‘The plan worked!’ It was my cue. The preparations were ready.”

Our first valentines, ages ago. Friends built the setup, hours after school had closed for the night. Candles, lights, flowers, artistic arrangements, and a surprise. The joys of young romantics.

Old memories.

“You still haven’t told me your last request.”

She grinned. “Actually, I couldn’t think of one. I thought I’d save it up in case I want you to do something you don’t want.”

I laughed.

“And ‘Two Requests’ don’t sound as dramatic as ‘Three Requests’.”

We started walking down the street towards her house. We reached an intersection; a road ahead, a road behind, a road to the left, and a path to the right, leading to her place.

We stood under a lamp-post by the sidewalk. It was late and few cars or people were passing. A cold breeze whistled by and I thought of Narnia.

We both loved Narnia. We’ve watched all the films and read all the books. Prince Caspian is our favorite film in the series. We especially liked Regina Spektor’s theme song.

I remember the film’s ending scene; when Edmund and Lucy realized their older siblings Peter and Susan had reached their last adventure in Narnia. It’s sad that Peter and Susan aren’t returning. But that’s just how it is.

“You want the bliss, the magic to continue — but that time has passed,” I told her months ago when we first broke up. “A new chapter awaits, and staying where the previous one ended brings no real happiness.”

Like Peter and Susan, we had our time.

It’s sad. It’s sad because it’s beautiful. But we all have to move on from Narnia.

I smiled as I remember the “last letter” she gave me at the pine tree-filled park.

I cannot let my heart stay with a man I'm no longer with.

I must be strong enough to say goodbye and accept that letting go is not weak.

I must set you free to become the man you're meant to be, even if that isn't the man I knew.

And I must become, must grow, must make beautiful memories in your absence.

We stood under that lone lamp in the middle of the intersection. She buried her face in my chest and I felt her warm tears roll. I held her close and my tears warmed her neck.

She shook her head. She kept shaking her head.

“You have to go,” I whispered.

“No. I don’t want to go.”

“Please let me go.”

Slowly, she nodded.

“I want you to do something for me. And for yourself. Consider this the last request,” I said.

“From now on, we will cut everything. We won’t reach out no matter how painful it gets. We are on our own now.”

Our tears flowed furiously.

“So I want you to walk home, by yourself. I want you to walk away from me, on your own. We’re letting each other go now. Walk away and don’t look back.”

We held each other closer. We held hands… And then she walked. Away from me. Away from us. I watched her walk away so every fiber of my being knows that I am on my own now.

She reached her gate. I turned around and walked away.

I wondered what small moments and gestures I took for granted.

Maybe I should’ve paid more attention to the little details. Her hand’s touch, her warmth, her smile. Maybe I should have held her longer… But I guess it doesn’t matter. It would never be long enough.