He told me he will be leaving for Florence next month. “I want you to come with me,” he said. I answered it with a kiss. And we held hands the whole night.
We both know it. This was what I prepared myself for. Him, probably too. And it was final.
Ever recall me saying “nothing good ever stays with me”? This is Exhibit FVCK.
It is very pleasing to watch people assume that I love my life. That I am happy and contented. Some of them even claimed they envy me. It also makes me sad. How it makes me feel so alone. And scared. I cry almost every night at the thought that no one will be there to help. Because I am too proud. And they all trust it when I say, “nothing is ever wrong.”
No. Women are not meant to be tamed. It is not our fault that most men are too pussy to settle with those they suppose would submit to them.
Do not alter yourself from a cool smart strong unconventional lady to a cliche sweet touchy-feely (men just enjoy that) baby-talking chick in order to snag someone.
This society is cruel on women like us. This is the era where having brains, being classy, and too original is regarded as an oddity, or what certain men would not admit as threat.
Do not let yourself go because of this grim fact. For I am neither a militant feminist or a cynic on saying this.
In many occasions, I met men and women alike who embraced their “weirdness” and still managed to be happy and accepted. Each of them even found that one person who actually fell in love with his/her uniqueness.
I can say this much, my friend, because I well know.
I was lying on the floor and it was at that point that I saw myself clearly.
I was made of glass and my heart was the only part of me that was not crystallized: it was made of smoke —thick white smoke that flutters around my chest.
Cracks then begun to appear on my body. Everywhere. And with each shatter, the smoke slowly escaped from each opening. What was left reminded me of charcoal rocks. Ash. Black. Ugly.
I saw myself —made of broken glasses with a dark core trapped within it. I let my mind dance furiously on its very image. Every detail. Remembering every cut. Every mark. Every bad form. Remembering. And never forgetting.
There is an end to it. I know that much. And I will wait for that final blow. The blow that will leave me into pieces. Pieces that are unmendable. Grossly damaged. Ruined and can never be whole again.
My only wish is to wait in peace.
“Why are we having froyo again?” my roommate asked in between mouthfuls of mango toppings.
I winked, mixing strawberry bits (so not surprising) and kiwi fruit on my frozen yogurt. “Because I am sad.”
She choked and I had to wait for her to stop laughing. We’ve only known each other since summer but this girl is a sweetheart. She pulled me out of bed and promised to treat me with whichever food I like. I was in the room for almost 12 hours already, buried under my pillows and blankets, not even getting up to pee or get tea. She was dead worried.
I smiled and animatedly, I told her about what happened. Her face grew serious as she listened. And when I was finally done she weakly said (but with a hint of amusement on her face), “you’re a cruel person.”
I savored what was left of my cup. “I know,” I coolly responded. “And that’s what makes me sad,” I wanted to add but I immediately changed the topic instead to our neighbor who loudly plays 90’s songs around 5 in the morning almost everyday.
“Never? But why?? I was only 16 when I got deflowered!” my friend’s grandmother exclaimed and I was near to tears from laughing.
“She thinks it’s cool to tell that story to young people these days,” my friend apologetically said but I see no reason why she should be embarrassed.
My grandom was worse (in a good way) and it was always a “riot” at her house. She was a refined intelligent yet untamed old lady. Her strong but loving personality was the very reason why she did not disown her “most beautiful and most stubborn” grandchild. Her words, not mine. And I rather like it than be called the saddest or the most coward among the Lugo girls.
It was a fun tea time and Nana Pilar was on a chatty and lively mood the whole afternoon, “bullying” me from time to time —telling me how I let lots of stupid things hold me back and that I should stop living in the past. She compensated her sharp remarks by telling funny anecdotes AKA crazy things she did when she was young. “And look at me, I still reach 84,” she would muse.
Old people are cool. Sometimes, they are more accepting than the people our own age.
I was talking to Grief last night.
“Why now?” I weakly asked. But Grief has no ears to hear my plea and no eyes to see my despair.
Grief kissed me on the forehead and whispered inside my head, “Welcome back, sweet child.”
I told him about this girl at the office that everyone cannot stop talking about. I showed him her photos on Facebook. And hesitantly, I asked him if something is wrong with me because I cannot see what is so special about her appearance. To me, she is almost identical to every pleasant looking girl in the city, with the perfect make-up and the right clothes. And I do not even mean that in a bad way, I added. She looks nice. Cliché, but nice.
“Maybe I am insecure of her?” I absent-mindedly asked. And then we both laughed and I shrugged it off. I like her. Unlike the popular girls in our modeling agency (well, all of them are popular), she is okay; even warm and talks a lot. I was only bothered by the idea that maybe my standard is turning weirder than before. Sipping my coffee, I nervously waited for his response.
“She’s pretty,” he started. “You are beautiful.”
“Baby, we’re not talking about me here. And isn’t pretty and beautiful the same thing?”
He looked thoughtfully at my officemate’s pictures and then he continued.
“Pretty is appreciated by everyone. But rarely do people see what is beautiful. Both are good in their own ways. Like in movies. The pretty ones are similar to mainstream and highest-grossing films. While the beautiful are those on the category of art or indie.”
Broadly smiling now, he turned his gaze on me. “I’m really bad at explaining my point, huh?”
“No,” I said slowly, smiling back. “I understand it perfectly now.”
“Have you seen We Bought A Zoo?” I asked, giving it a test if my best friend in elementary still has the same taste in movies as mine.
“If you love me, let me know,” Maya said dramatically. And we giggled like teenagers after that.
“That is the biggest bullshit. I mean, it’s not for everyone —not for people like you,” she gave me a sympathetic smile.
I was puzzled. “People like me?”
She smirked. “All those boys who confessed to you. You laughed at their faces and returned their gifts. You don’t love anyone.”
I was even more puzzled. “I don’t remember being that heartless. I was never even that popular.”
“What’s this? Selective amnesia?
“I don’t like this topic,” I said, getting uneasy at where the conversation is heading.
She just shrugged. “I’m not going to push but you don’t love this guy.”
I sighed, finally understanding her point. I told her about Lukas earlier that day. “He makes me happy,” I humbly said.
“For now. But he’ll get tired soon if you cannot reciprocate his feelings. Unrequited love is just an illusion. Stop being selfish,” she impatiently said.
I thought it over. We smoked quietly and then I finally spoke. “You know what,” I said, way too calmly, “that’s probably what I wanted all along. I want him to get tired of me. I want him to realize for himself that he’s just wasting time. That I will never change. That he’s better off with someone as good as he is. That’s probably that.”
And Maya was just as calm, even humorous when she said, “I believe you. But just this once, can you be less evil?”
I laughed, but it was a sad laugh. “I’m trying,” I said in between the smoke coming from our cigarettes.
And as the van pulled over, I watched him walked pass by the parking area.
“He looks so much like you,” I sadly thought.
If I’m going to follow my ID, I would’ve run towards him and hug him so tight, not letting go, never letting him push me away again. But I listen to my Ego almost always after he rejected me months ago. And so I let my heart float, floundering on the fact that he can never love me back, sticking to the lie that I’m doing fine so I can unburden him of having to consider my feelings every time. This, I bravely consented, will be the last time I will let myself hope.
And strange enough, I was not a bit hurt when I totally lost it. Yes it was sad, but the pain had probably faded throughout time.
I will still love him, I know that much —but like a real sport, I must accept my defeat knowing I did my best; God (if there is one) knows how much it would’ve made me happy. To be with him. To be loved by him.
Eyes on the road, I finally allowed sadness totally cover me with its thick clouds and enormous wings that pull me up as a swing does. I felt like flying and I smiled in spite of myself.
I rolled the window down and lit a cigarette. “Let it go,” I thought as I closed my eyes and waited for the traffic to subside.
Mom once told me that the reason why I cannot stand prissies is because I never let anyone treat me like a princess. I even left home to prove my point. “Don’t expect every girl to be as stubborn and detached as you are,” she said. And with that, she assured me that it is okay to be needy and submissive sometimes.
Mothers are crazy. Concerned, but crazy.
I stared at the ceiling and mumbled under my breath, “it’s not even funny.”
“What is?”
“Hang-over.”
“The movie or the real thing?”
“Both. I won’t touch any alcohol again until I finish my draft.”
He laughed and grabbed my hand to kiss it.
“What?” I raised my eyebrows at him and waited for an explanation.
He smiled sheepishly. “See, you’re not really a drinker. You’d rather avoid it. So it is not the kind of reinforcement/punishment you need.” He was still not letting go of my hand. “Try not smoking,” he finally said.
I paused for a while, not really deciding on what to do but stopping myself from biting his ears. He was just too cute.
“BAKA,” I said, forcing anger on my voice but I squeezed his hand anyway.
“Contrary to popular belief, I suck at flirting. My hair, my clothes, my language —they all scream ‘wild’. But what I really am is one lame boring bitch. I’m like a potato with zero sex appeal. Trust me. I had several attempts to be ‘normal’. I tried to kiss this guy at the elevator and he just stood there looking so confused. It was embarrassing But funny. My friends can’t stop laughing at my ‘experiment’ that end up so badly. I must be really really fugly with no skills in seducing anyone. And what’s worse is that I don’t really care. I think it is just one of things that most girls can subtly and successfully do. And I salute them. But sadly for me, it’s just impossible,” I blurted out.
He was smiling the whole time. It was nothing like a mocking smile. It was warm and thoughtful.
I frowned. “That’s it? You’re not going to laugh or make fun of me after you’ve heard how abnormal I really am?”
He looked at me and spoke, almost in whisper, that my heart ached a little for those words. “You are pure,” he said.
I looked away. I was so happy I forgot for a moment that the reason why I told him those things was to make him leave.
My brother and I were having an argument over the phone.
“I have high respect for people who are independent —financially, emotionally, and mentally. I have high respect for myself,” I quipped. All I wanted to say was that I want to skip family dinner. I hate it so much.
“Pancake’s ready!” Lukas shouted from the kitchen. My brother obviously heard it. He guffawed for almost 3 minutes or so.
“You’re ruining it,” I scowled at the very handsome man bringing pancakes and bacon. He even remembered to put milk on my tea. He smiled and turned the television on. “Sorry about that,” he winked.
I got the message and suddenly felt guilty for my behavior. “Tell Mom and Dad I’ll be there by 7,” I returned to my brother and then hung up.
Lukas and I ate breakfast in silence. It was not the awkward type of silence; neither was it confused nor the mood where one would be too eager to break the ice.
We were relaxed with each other. It was more like a deep understanding that makes further talk unnecessary.
