I had this bad habit of telling my past hookups “I love you,” not that I actually did love them. If I was falling in love, they’d never know; it’s the same way people act so dismal and stoic in front of people they find hot, because if you make it known you’re interested, you simply lose “the game.” Don’t let the thoughtcrime show on your face. It’s so 1984 George Orwell.
I kept telling these unfortunate souls those three powerful words because why wouldn’t you roleplay as newlyweds? It was always after sex, of course. My friends have told me about how saying “I love you” in the middle of missionary is just the hottest thing in the world, and it bonds you for life. So I’ve never done it. It reads to me like a bad omen: when you talk about death you have to knock on wood three times. Saying I love you to a hookup in the middle of intercourse is like wishing for forever. Nobody actually wants forever. I cheated forever by saying I Love You outside of sex. But as it was, words don’t really mean anything, because Actions Speak Louder, things like that.
It was deranged to have even done it in the first place, but I’m a practicing Absurdist. There’s a thrill in doing things you’re not supposed to do. It’s just been so easy to tell people that you love them. I Love You abides by the rules of basic economics: the more something is in supply the more its value depreciates. I just happened to throw it around because I just had so much love to give. And it was like poking a bear. I badly wanted to see what would happen if I broke the natural order of things. Would I eventually mean what I had said?
I promise you that it was just part of a really elaborate joke and I had hoped it landed correctly. The point is the absurdity of the situation. Because, God, imagine if I actually did love them.
Playing house with a complete stranger for a week is romantic. I think it’s exhilarating when you just don’t know what could ever happen to you. Summer (I am writing in the Philippines so it’s practically summer all-year round for me) flings are meant to burn out intensely and leave you completely breathless. It’s your fault if your pants catch on fire and you singe yourself in the process.
But I played with fire a lot, and it did actually backfire on me once.
Back in college, I fooled around with this one guy from La Salle. I had told him I just wanted to make out in my condo, and then in his. Of course, one thing leads to another. We “just made out” a total of three times before it all blew up in my face.
Before I knew it, I started thinking about whether we would make a good couple, how it would be like seeing him everyday after class, how he would introduce me to his family, and if he'd kiss me again and mean it. We kissed and tossed and turned and I fell in love with him in like, 5 days. This wouldn’t be a good story if I never gave into the cliché, plus I always love it when I know how a story is going to end. Thrillers are bad for the heart.
The future was so addled with uncertainty, and somewhere, there was this secret feeling of bliss that I just had to get to the bottom of. Being in Love (I thought it was love) sends you into this vertigo of best-case scenarios where you live happily ever after. But you don’t always live happily ever after. Most of the time, the reality was that he actually just wanted to make out; the stark reality was that your throat was not the only throat he was sticking his tongue down in. And get this, the worst part is not the betrayal—but I don’t even think you can call it a betrayal and that’s exactly what I’m so riled up about—it’s that you can’t get mad about it at all because that was just in the memorandum of agreement when both of you started taking each other’s clothes off. He didn’t mislead me or anything. He, most of all, never promised me forever. It was all casual. It was all non-binding. Talk about a taste of my own medicine.
You should always remember what brought you to someone’s bed in the first place. Although sometimes it won’t kill you to just admit you’ve changed your mind. You can always change your mind. But it was over and we never talked again since.
People are too embarrassed to ever reconcile they’re in love, that they had indeed fallen in love. Admitting is how you lose the game. Casual only works if both parties agree to never flinch. A game of chicken, as it was. Anything beyond that is a clear breach of the social contract. And there will be consequences.
It can really piss you off. It’s like, why can’t he promise you forever? And it pisses you off even more when you put yourself in his shoes and you get this rude, sobering epiphany on exactly why he won't.
I don’t believe that there’s anything wrong with being afraid of commitment. Eternity is one way of being cocky. How could you really know you want eternity when you know nothing at all? How are you so sure that he actually did promise you forever and ever and ever? I think people are afraid of being the only one committing, which by all means is just the most god-awful feeling in the whole wide world. Have you ever told a joke and nobody laughed at it? How would you feel if you skydived 10,000 feet from the stratosphere only to find out that nobody was down there to break your fall?
Casual is fun when you never expect anything in return. So you have to remember that selflessness is a virtue. When he kissed you for the last time that fateful August night, you also have to remember that the kiss in itself is just a gesture of goodwill, and it’s a gift you have to promise to keep forever even if it means zilch.
Love is just so pervasive to be bound by an absolute outcome, you know. The brief encounter was more than enough, and perhaps it was never going to work out. Even the Roman Empire did not see Happily Ever After. It was always about the journey, not the destination; Smile because it happened, super blasé stuff. Romulus Augustus wouldn't have cared for self-realization because he was just too busy conquesting, or failing at it. But it’s true. People think arriving towards something is the only way anything can justify itself. Some things are just finished the very moment they happen. It's charming that way, and oftentimes for the better.
Love has always had that beautiful tragic sunset quality, to risk it all despite the odds, to crucify yourself without guarantee. It would have been enough to be in love with just that. Falling in love with falling in love.
Limmy Limbo is a writer and multimedia artist based in Manila. He writes short essays and stories about the world around him. You can read more of his work on Substack or on Philstar L!fe.
