I Broke Up with Reality on a Tuesday

I’ve been doing better lately. I wake up before my alarm now. I drink water first thing in the morning, not leftover coffee from last night. I even stretch a little, not enough to call it exercise, but enough to pretend I care about circulation. Life feels… manageable. Everything's quieter these days, or maybe I just stopped listening so hard. My sister still texts me good mornings with random cat videos at work. I reply with “haha” because that’s the emotional range I’m comfortable with. I laugh more now, not the desperate kind, just the small, surprised ones. Like when a seagull steals someone’s sandwich. Or when I see a motivational quote written in Comic Sans. Those tiny, stupid things that make you realize you’re still capable of reacting to the world. So yeah, I guess I’m okay. Or as okay as a man can be after painting his areolas green. That part wasn’t planned. Me and my mates were drinking after work hours. The air smelled of cheap gin, damp air, and bad decisions in progress. One of the new recruits, a loud kid from Cebu, said I looked “too serious for someone who’s not important.” I told him I wasn’t serious, I was just tired. He said tired people make the best victims for dares. The bet was simple: lose at tongits, paint your nipples the color of envy. I lost. And because I have the pride of a broken statue, I did it. Two strokes of cheap acrylic paint from the supply room, applied in the office bathroom under flickering light. It stung. It looked ridiculous. Everyone laughed. I could’ve washed it off right after. But I didn’t. Maybe it’s because, in a strange way, it reminded me of something... Or someone. ... Back when she was still around, she used to joke that I looked “too neutral.” Said my whole life was gray. She said my clothes, my room, my face, even my vocabulary were all quite monotone. “You need color,” she’d say, painting her nails bright green, just to irritate my minimalist tendencies. That's her favourite color, by the way. Once, I teased her about it. “You look like a traffic light.” She smiled and said, “At least, I get people movong.” She was... something... All impulse, all motion. She could find meaning in lipstick shades. I could barely find meaning in breakfast. When she left, everything went back to gray. She gave my world lots of colors. And I know for a fact that it sounds cliche. And it might be a little bit hopeless romantic. But she at least made life a little bit bearable. And I know that didn't stop me from making stupid, selfish decisions. And that her presence used to feel like responsibilities. She feels more precious to me now that she's gone. And maybe that’s why I kept the paint. Because for the first time in a while, something was loud again. Stupidly, rebelliously loud. A color that didn’t belong, but refused to apologize for being there. I used to think healing looked graceful. That is should be quiet or cinematic. Turns out, it looks like a guy with green nipples laughing alone in a bathroom. I’m not happy. And I think I’ve long stopped caring about what that word’s supposed to mean. That's enough.