Truly, Madly, Deeply

by Marian Tee

  While she did believe depression was a medical condition, she was also of the (unpopular) opinion that depression, at certain points of one's life, was the result of fallacious perceptions and misinformed decisions.

  Depression could and was more likely to happen if a person (or, as far as her thesis was concerned, an individual of the Catholic persuasion) failed to appreciate that true happiness was one of the soul. Eudaimonia was the term the Greeks used for this particular state while Saint Augustine explained it more eloquently, having written in his autobiography:

  What does love look like?

  It has the hands to help others.

  It has the feet to hasten to the poor and needy.

  It has eyes to see misery and want.

  It has the ears to hear the sighs and sorrows of men.

  That is what love looks like.

  Settling down on one of the empty tables at the back, Diana propped her iPad up and drummed her fingers on the desk as she considered how to best frame her thoughts.

  If depression is the outcome of either a person's tendency or unconscious choice to prioritize a lesser form of love, then could this not be effectively rectified by revealing the truest and purest nature of love, and in so doing show what true happiness constitutes?

  Not a perfectly conclusive premise, but it was a start at least, and Diana slowly began to type. The words flowed relatively easily, and by the time her alarm went off, she was glad to see that she had been able to write an additional two pages for her thesis.

  Since life was so good, she thought contentedly, it should follow that she must be doing God's will. That, after, all was what true happiness was about.

  Right, Saint M?

  Diana had her answer some minutes later when her first life coaching session commenced with a MoU between Helder Meer and its students.

  "Our university likes to keep it simple," Mr. Bakker explained, "which is why we have this in lieu of the typical student handbook. I'm here to answer any questions you may have, and if there happens to be any issue we're unable to resolve, you can raise it with either the Student Council or the University Board during our monthly assembly."

  Her life coach stood up and pointed to the door, saying, "We're required to give you privacy while reading the MoU, so just knock if you need me."

  The Memorandum of Understanding only consisted of three pages, and the terms and conditions it enumerated were as straightforward as Mr. Bakker had said. She was half-inclined to simply affix her signature at the end and be done with it, but her conscience ultimately won this round, and Diana began to read.

  Section 1 was all about attendance, Section 2 was on grades, and then...Section 5.

  Students have the right to form any relationship that is consensual in nature and participate in activities that are demonstrative of this for as long as these activities are not criminal or felonious in nature and the relationship itself is not unlawful.

  Assuming that the above considerations are met, the university thus recognizes any relationship in which the involved persons are any of the following:

  1A Both parties are of the student body

  1B Both parties are of the faculty body

  1C Both parties are of the administrative body

  1D A student and a member of either the faculty or administrative body*

  *Both parties are required to disclose their relationship to the university and file a Conflict of Interest declaration form.

  Together

  Diana felt sick.

  And the closer she got to the faculty building, the sicker she felt, and she could only feel dimly thankful the moment raindrops struck her skin, and her pain turned invisible amidst the skies' own tears.

  She could only muster half a smile for the professor's secretary when she came barging in, and either she looked too terrifying or pathetic, but Mrs. Montez didn't even say a word, much less stop her from walking straight into the professor's office.

  Matthijs was on his feet the moment he saw the distraught expression on her face. "Diana?"

  She tried to speak, but it was just still too much, and she could only look at him and hurt.

  He was so, so beautiful, with nothing in this world able to lessen the flawless symmetry of his face.

  So beautiful.

  It was just too damn bad he had turned out to be a modern-day Dorian Gray, and almost as if he heard her heart shattering anew, he suddenly stiffened. "You know." His voice was without emotion, and so was his too-gorgeous face, which was no longer anything but just carved edges and grooves now.

  "That Helder Meer has no rules on fraternization?" A choking laugh escaped her, but she couldn't even find satisfaction in the way the sound made him flinch. "Yes, I know. And it's just...I should've known..." Oh God, she couldn't stop laughing. "I really should." Didn't dare stop. "Congratulations, Professor de Graaf. You really did a number on me---"

  "Diana---"

  She saw him move towards her, and she stumbled back as laughter turned into a desperate cry. "Don't touch me!"

  The professor froze, the fear in her eyes slicing into him like a blade plunging deep and hard into his heart.

  "Was it really that fun," she asked brokenly, "watching me make an ass of myself---"

  "I have never wanted to hurt you," the professor said tightly.

  "And yet reality states otherwise."

  "Believe what you want." The professor's jaw clenched. "It's your choice---"

  "There isn't a choice," she cried out, "and you know it. There's only the truth, and I can't - I can't keep lying to myself about it." Her voice cracked. "I just want to know why. Just please tell me why---"

  "Calm down---"

  "Then tell me why," she choked out. "Was it because I'm a novelty? Was it because you were bored?"

  "Diana, will you fucking calm down---"

  "Was it because you wanted to bag a billionaire's little sister---"

  "Are you hearing yourself?" he bit out. "What kind of man do you think I am---"

  A wild, crazed laugh spilled past her lips. "A good man, Professor. That's what I thought. That's what I've always thought, no matter how many times you've hurt me..."

  A good man, she thought sickly. She had let him gotten away with so many things - God, she had let him get away with everything!

  And all because she had wanted, needed to fool herself into thinking that---

  Her skin started to crawl.

  He was a good man.

  And suddenly she could no longer take it, the very nearness of him making her want to throw up in shame and self-revulsion. She spun away in clumsy haste, tearing out of his office and running out of the building as the sound of his harsh voice calling her name out faded.

  Fool!

  I'm such a fool!

  Oh, Saint M, I'm such a pathetic, stupid fool!

  Despair blinded her, and she stumbled, legs crumpling without warning, falling and skinning her knees, and it was this - seeing blood trickle out to paint her flesh - that was the final straw.

  And all throughout this, he watched from a distance, bleeding the same time she did---

  I'm sorry.

  But he could not, would not speak the words.

  Once was a coincidence, twice was a warning, and there was a fucking reason the Lord kept allowing the Devil to toy with them.

  His dark gaze never leaving her small, beaten form, he called one of Diana's friends, saying simply, "Diana needs you." He told Magnolia where to find Diana and dropped the call. The other girl didn't disappoint, arriving in six minutes flat, and the professor stepped back into the shadows as Magnolia helped her friend up.

  Lightning flashed, and it was enough, illuminating the look of devastation on Diana's face as her trembling lips moved in a soundless, fractured plea.

  Help me.

  Reading the words on her lips and knowing that he was the reason she had been reduced to begging---

  He watched her walk away, and his mind nearly splintered, al
l of her anguished cries suddenly raining down on him, and each damn word was a flaming arrow that burned him alive.

  Was it really that fun watching me make an ass of myself?

  I just want to know why. Just please tell me why.

  A good man, Professor. That's what I thought. That's what I've always thought, no matter how many times you've hurt me...

  But even as his heart felt fit to burst, his eyes remained painfully dry, cold, empty darkness swathing every inch of his skin---

  To the point that his tears could no longer break past them---

  That the skies wept for him instead.

  This is the only way I can protect you, my darling.

  Cut out my heart so yours can keep beating.

  Him

  You Won't See Me Crying by Passage (Acoustic)

  The professor had never thought losing her would hurt this much.

  It had been two weeks since everything had blown up in his face, and he had thought he would be long over it by now.

  But he wasn't.

  The only times he saw her these days were in class, and it fucking killed him, the way she never even looked at him in the eye and spoke only when he specifically called her out. As for their private consultations, she basically ignored all of his summons, and even though this gave him every reason to flunk her, big idiot that he was, he still kept her on the fucking roster and found himself sending her emails from his private address.

  If you're going to keep acting like a child about this, then at least email me a copy of your draft so I can take a fucking look. Whether you want to admit it, you need my help. I've attached a couple of articles that you'd do well to read. It should help you, whatever direction you've decided to take with your paper.

  But every single one of them had gone unanswered, and her silence flayed him alive.

  He knew this was what he wanted. Was how he needed it to be. He fucking knew. But it didn't - couldn't - change the way he felt.

  He missed her.

  He goddamn missed her.

  He missed her to the point that she haunted every damn conscious second of his existence. He would be having a meeting with a couple board members of the university, and she would suddenly pop up in front of him, a ghost of the past, head bowed, knees crashing to the ground. He would be in his private box at the Royal Opera House, and in the middle of someone's fucking aria, the sound of her cries would ring in his ears.

  I just want to know why.

  Just please tell me why.

  Tell me why.

  And he would find himself laughing his head off, laughing like a fucking hyena that those seated at nearby boxes had turned to look at him like he was insane.

  Which he was, Matthijs knew, since there were times, when he was alone, and he was at his lowest fucking point, he would find himself thinking...

  What if I had told her why?

  What if he ignored logic and pretended the past didn't exist? What if he did tell her why? What if?

  What if he told himself when push finally came to fucking shove, and shit finally hit the fan, it wouldn't be as he feared? She wouldn't wish to turn back time. Wouldn't wish he had listened to her and told her why.

  Could you be that girl for me?

  Would you still stay?

  Would you still be there when everyone else was smart enough to leave?

  Her

  Diana had known, the moment she stepped inside the forum hall, showing up was a big mistake.

  But her feet kept moving, and soon it was too late for her to back out, with the professor calling her name out in clipped tones.

  She came up to the podium, and all eyes were on her. Aside from the professor, there was also the rest of his panel: a retired priest and a Carmelite nun to represent the Church, Mr. Bakker and the university's resident therapist, and a pair of social workers from the local help center.

  Her palms were cold and clammy as she reached for her iPad and connected it to the projector via Bluetooth. Clearing her throat, she began her presentation, and when it was over and the lights went back on, she took one look at her audience and knew.

  I was right.

  This was a big mistake.

  The questions came at her all at once, their myriad of expressions ranging from perplexity to outright dissatisfaction.

  "So do I have this correctly," the retired priest said heavily. "Are you insinuating that Catholics who commit suicide are selfish?"

  "No, Father, that's n-not the case at all." So aghast was Diana she found herself stammering. "All I'm saying that they need to be more selfless---"

  "In other words, selfish," the therapist pointed out.

  She quickly shook her head in protest. "No, I promise, that's truly not what I meant. All I'm saying is that those suffering from depression be made to see that if they die, they might as well have killed the people depending on them."

  "What about the people who have no one in their lives?" one of the social workers quizzed. "Because not everyone's lucky to have people to love."

  "Then it is the Church as a whole that should help them find someone or something to care for---"

  A scoffing sound from the other social worker cut her off. "That's it? That's your answer? For high-suicide-risk individuals to look for leeches to hang on to them? That it's better to have people suck them dry as long as it keeps them alive?" The other woman's tone bordered on disgust, and even though Diana knew better than to take things personally, she couldn't help it, and her eyes started to sting.

  Unfortunately, this only seemed to rile up the woman even more. "Oh, for God's sake!"

  "Give the child a chance to form her thoughts and defend her beliefs, Luisa," the Carmelite nun murmured. Turning to Diana, the soft-spoken nun gave her an encouraging smile, saying, "Go on, Ms. Leventis."

  "The reason why I want it to be the Church to help individuals struggling with depression find something or someone to care about is because it's the Church. It would make no sense for the Church to give us someone unworthy to care for."

  "That's a very risky suggestion," Mr. Bakker said quietly, "and I say that both as a trained psychologist and a Catholic. The Pope may be made infallible by the grace of God, but other members of the church aren't so lucky. There's every possibility 'mismatches' could occur, and if that happens, the person they're supposed to care about becomes another reason for them to kill themselves."

  Diana could feel herself paling. She had never...oh God, she hadn't even thought of that angle, and when she saw the professor's tight-lipped gaze, she suddenly knew. Even without him telling her, she knew - this was probably one of the issues he had taken pains to bring up in the emails he had sent to her. Emails that she had moved to trash without reading a single one of them.

  Luisa was right, Diana thought numbly.

  I am being a kid about this.

  And the people she wanted to help, the people who were supposed to be her purpose - they deserved better.

  The professor asked her to stay behind as soon as Telemann began playing in the background and the rest of the panelists started to rise.

  "Yes, sir." Diana's tone was subdued.

  Nouveaux Quatuors Parisiens (No. 4 in B Minor) continued to play. It was one of her favorites, but for once, its serene melody failed to soothe her. It was like reliving one of those horrid blame sessions she used to suffer daily under her mother, and Esther would itemize every little mistake in the most disparaging fashion.

  In those days, she had been able to bear her mother's rebukes because she had known she didn't deserve them.

  This time was different. This time, she was at fault. This time, she had truly failed.

  And when the professor finally gestured for her to come forward, what hurt even more was when he only said, "Do better next time."

  She swallowed hard. "You can shout at me. I was stupid."

  "You were."

  "I shouldn't have ignored your emails. I...I know that now."

  "Good."<
br />
  "Whatever you have to say, I can take it." So please, please, please be cruel. Because it was this quiet tone of his that she couldn't bear. It made her think of so many stupid things, and she couldn't risk that. She just couldn't.

  "So if you want to shout at me, just do it. I don't deserve---"

  "No, Ms. Leventis." The professor's tone was stiff. "It's not about what you do or don't deserve."

  Finally, Diana thought in relief. He's going to be lash out. Hurt me. And most of all, he's going to remind me just how wrong I was about him all this time.

  But that was not the case at all.

  "Remember why you are working on this in the first place," the professor said grimly. "Recall the purpose that drove you and had my whole class moved to tears. Remember the people you wished to help - and next time, remember it's about what they deserve."

  Instead, he showed her that she had been right all along.

  Hearing what he had to say, knowing he understood where she was coming from despite her screw-up, how could she not see it?

  She hadn't been wrong.

  He was a good man.

  He just wasn't good to her and for her.

  Him

  The professor was getting used to missing her.

  He knew this because the ache he felt whenever he saw her had subsided, its agony blunted until it was nothing but a dull ache, like an old, untreated injury left for time to heal. But while he had learned to accept the existence of such feelings, he continued to question its validity and veracity, the pragmatic (and cynical) side of him unable to help but wonder if these feelings were nothing but a manifestation of some character defect in him.

  The feelings existed, but they might not be what they seem to be.

  For how could one miss a person when the time they spent with each other was, in the sum totality of their respective lives, but a fraction, something no greater than a few snatched moments in a lifetime?