In my existence, I've experienced different kinds of love in this world. Love for family, the kind that I know I am always safe. There's a love for friends, the kind that can unfailingly make me laugh really hard when things are getting rough. There's also a kind of love that can be deceiving, but it is rare. And there's my favorite kind of love— you.
Yes, you. The love that I can never get rid of. The one that's always within me, innate. The kind that won't disappear as easy as how my hiccups do when I drink water. You are the love that could be as invisible as gamma rays, but as fatal as when you put fire into alcohol. This love, as cliché as it may sound, is heroin that flows through my veins and infests my mind.
Do I have regrets? Yes. A lot. So much. When you asked how my vacation was, I should've told you everything that happened since day one. I should've told you that every waking day, I was longing for your presence; that when you and your family were away, I was in front of my laptop the whole time, waiting for that dot beside your name to turn green. When you were ranting about your grades, unsure if you'll be a college scholar, I should've told you how much I believe in your capacity; that getting that scholarship or not, there will be someone who is more than willing to stand in the middle of sunken garden and shout on top of her voice how proud she is of you. I should've showed you how I genuinely feel; I shouldn't have clicked the blue-colored thumbs up button. But I had to protect my heart. I had to keep it shielded; I had to do it for myself. Because I knew, somehow, that this is going to be our endgame. And I was right. I kept my heart in a safest place possible. I was sure of it. But, why am I still writing about you?
I kept my heart in a safest place possible. I was sure of it.
I shouldn't, I know. It's still vivid in the waves of my memories, that night when you shut me out and how I frantically called our friend. I couldn't hear my voice as I yelped at her through the phone; I couldn't even hear what I was ranting about. I could only hear my sobs in between. It's still clear in my vague thoughts how I called you the same night, asking why, what went wrong, while trying to sound firm when I was nearly breaking apart. But it's much clearer the time that I heard nothing from you.
Even though things have turned upside down between us, I'm certain that I'm not done loving you yet. As I kept my feelings for its safety, along with it was the love that I've never shown to you; nor let you feel. And for almost a year, this love, as what you said—is plummeting me to the deepest fall ever.
I'm not done loving you yet. Not when I hurriedly answered your phone call in the middle of the library only to tell me that our Valentine's date has just got cancelled. I'm not done loving you when I was on the verge of giving up but then changed my mind. I'm never gonna be done when I still reread our bygone conversations and laugh at how silly we are were. And I'll never be done loving you when I am still awake, in the middle of the night, writing about you. Never.
I barely remember distinct memories of us but when I do, they come rushing like a raging flow of river. I couldn't remember much about our first year together but I certainly know the feeling was pure euphoric. I know, because I could still live through the feeling every time I reread your number of letters to me. I remember when our English teacher told us, as an activity, to write a letter to someone inside the class. We weren't a thing back then yet; we weren't EVEN close. Then our classmates, mostly my friends, teased us a lot when we found out that we just exchanged our letters. Well, in high school, they call it fate. Yes, I still have your letter with me and the last sentence says, "I wish that we will still be friends even if we reach 4th year." But we weren't just friends when we did. I looked back in our first months as official, when ILWNI was still our secret code, and our friends could hardly relate to us every time we say tralala. But our story didn't end there yet.
I also recall how I never liked it whenever you tell things to your friends that only the two of us should know; I never liked how it sounded arrogant to me. I didn't like how I used to feel that you were paying more attention to others than you were to me; It made me feel of less importance. And maybe it was too jealous of me to feel like you were spending more time with your blockmates than you were with me because of school requirements, which I also didn't like. But most of all, I didn't like how you constantly forced me away from you; how you used malignant words that you thought would make me loathe you. I wish it did, but all you left with me was incurable pain and a pinch of anger.
You are the love that conceals every flaw, patches up every mistake, overlooks any imperfections, and sheers all the anger into love again. I hope you found the reality that you were talking about when we last talked. And I, on the other hand, will try to quit writing about you, It may not be today, nor the day after; but sometime, not so far from now, these pages will no longer tell about you. Does that scare you? It should.
Sent in by Paulyn Guballa. Got your own story to tell? Submit your feels! We'd love to hear what you have to say. If you're lucky, you just might get published in this space, too! Please indicate if you want to remain anonymous. We're also looking for artwork and illustrations to use with the stories, so please send some in if you want to be featured! Please send original, unpublished work only.