Late Post.

Yay. I now have more time to blog.
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I just wanted to get it over with. I was angry.
My head hurt from the nonsensical rounds. And I frantically tried to switch on my phone, with its incessant sleeping getting really annoying considering the fact that I was waiting for something. I gave up and instead squeezed it for comfort, with the knowledge that I continually decelerated… to an eventual stop.

Nothing.

For the I’m-not-really-sure-how-manieth time, I passed the gantry. There was the usual screaming of “CARMINA”s and random teacher name(s) which made me feign running faster. Until I got to the other side and halt.

Still nothing.

“WHATEVER!”
18 minutes. An E. Pathetic. And nothing.
It was over. And after that, I wasn’t in the best of moods. But that’s how endings really are, are they not? Life isn’t a teenage flick.

I just wanted to get it over with. I was angry.
My thighs shook from exhaustion and cold, hard pain. I sought for one to blame.

And yet I was happy. Happy that I was on the way to a certain football match back in school. But I couldn’t decide whether I was more happy than angry. Neither could I determine which emotion to act on. But I could feel the pain – and I knew who to unreasonably hold responsible for it.

That made me more angry than happy.

He wasn’t there. He wasn’t on the field.
“Damn it. Let’s just get this over with and go home.” We went up to 3.3 and proceeded to a mechanical cutting and pasting sequence while the game went on downstairs. Of course, I didn’t know that.

It was done. We proceeded to the field, and from the staircase, we watched a clump of people clump together to make a bigger clump. “Maybe it’s him. Maybe he’s injured.” Evil laughter. But Zaff changed it all.

“Carmina, Mr Najib got injured!”

And I felt guilty for laughing.

He was there. Standing (non-injured) among the clump of teachers and students. He walked towards us, raising his arms up in what, with his senget smile still on. And I’m like whatever.
I didn’t want to talk to him. But I had to, anyway. Right then and there, I said the two worst words one could say to show her anger.

“I’M ANGRY!”

And I was doing two things at once.
One. I pretended to be angry when I actually wasn’t.
Two. I pretended not to be angry when I actually was.

And I didn’t know which emotion to act on so I acted on neither of them, but instead uttered another “I’m angry” while procuring a lollipop out of my bag. Ugh. How convincing could my anger get?

While they conversed I drifted away to check out Mr Najib. He looked… hurt. And I felt even guiltier.

Fiq, Cass and Cheryl went up to get their bags, and therefore out of the four, only I remained in the field. And Jason wanted to go kick stuff. Though I was supposed to be watching him (for support), my eyes often shifted back to the clump. And there were two reasons to this.

One. I wanted to see how Mr Najib was doing.
Two. I didn’t want to watch Mr Jason embarrass himself… It made me feel weird. As if he’s divulging some of his deepest, darkest… Err.

It was more of the second reason. Positive side: How can I be angry at this guy?
He came back. I guess he tired out.

“I could cry for you.”
And I didn’t know whether I said that because I felt sorry for him or because I laughed hard enough to do so.
Or because I’m gonna miss him. A lot.
We wanted him to stay.

He carried Mr Najib (while I watched and followed guiltily).
He treated us to ice cream.
We talked about nothing.
He waved goodbye. Why?