Another Love Letter

To the boy who will never know how much I love him,

There are still moments when I am reminded of the time when your dimples caused me to take a second glance at you, checking if the smile was for me. Those were small deep holes on a face of a brownie, of a boy who seemed to have a lifetime supply of positivity. I would never know of course if you were smiling at me, because I never took a chance to smile back.

There are still moments that take me back to the first time I got to know your name. Knowing your name flooded my heart with a unique kind of joy. How I froze when you reached out your hand to clasp mine, sealing a what would be like a special kind of friendship. After that, I immediately found myself writing your name on loose sheets of paper, on my literature notes, on my science laboratory reports, on the closing fly of my textbooks, even on thought clouds. However, only I would ever know that it had felt that way for me.

There are still moments when I turn a leaf of a page of a book you have borrowed from me once, listen to an old love song whose lyrics I have written on a bookmark for the book, or pass by a spot that we used to share to talk about common people and common lessons and common complaints about cafeteria food or unfavorable class schedule, and I start to think about the little things that I forced to ignite a spark between us two. Back in the days, we also often talked about how it had been much of a coincidence how we always found each other needing the same book, looking for our classrooms on the same floor, or walking our way home at the same time. What you didn’t know was that nothing was coincidence. I knew you would be there and I wanted to be in the same place and time with you.

There are still moments when I am stuck at replay of the time you would mindlessly hold my hand to see if a ring taken off a Coke tin can would fit my finger; or of the time when you run off a basketball game to break the news to me that you have ended it with the girl you used to like; or of the time I got too excited to see you the day after you got your freedom back, leaving a request of your heart for me to wait a little, but when I did see you, you were still with her, and I could not stop the tears from falling with the raindrops that felt like the skies were crying for me that night. The moments were like scenes from a chick flick that seemed to be having its share of dramatic irony. I can still memorize the sound of my heart breaking and you never knew you have caused me quite a lifetime of pain.

There are still moments that I have wished to undo so many times: taking a second glance at you, reaching back for your hand, stopping to hear you out, sitting right next to you, walking home with you, sharing the same staircase and hallway with you, using the same book, and liking the same songs. I wish to undo all of them because they have led me to the agony of waiting for you to like me. I have liked you since the first day I saw you smile and I looked back to see you smile again, up to the last day you walked away and looked back to flash the sweetest smile I have ever seen, and I would never see again. You would never know how the longing of my heart to see you smile again has brought upon me years of torture whenever moments that remind me of you seem not to mind a good time to be felt once again. These moments just barge open the door to my heart that has never find its closure and then start ripping off the stitches of the heartbreak that you have left me.

There are still moments when I wish I could say all these things to you and you can actually see me straight face with that oh so beautiful smile that has swept me off my feet, and tell me if these moments that I have kept hidden in a special place of my heart only for you, also mean something to you, or maybe not. But I could only wish the impossible. This is perhaps why time is of the essence when you are in love. We cannot always say that there will be another time to say the things that our heart screams.

When the boy that you like smiles at you, there should be no doubt nor worry. Go ahead and smile back. When he bumps into you in the hallway, borrows your book for history class, walks home with you, even if you have gotten everything planned out by securing his class schedule and list of subjects, go ahead and give him a hint of your feelings or tell him right away. The worst thing you will probably get is rejection. At least you won’t have to nurse a broken heart and never have known what he feels about you the first place. You could move on and look back to the memory of him as the boy you used to like but never liked you back, rather than a boy who never knew that you loved him.

This is our catastrophe. You will never know. Or maybe you know already, but how would I know that you already do? What would you want to tell me now? How would you seal the open wound of my broken heart? A couple of years or so after I last saw your smile, I heard that the angels paid you a visit a lifetime too early. I would like to believe they also fell in love with your smile. I appease my heart with the thought that your smile would make heaven even brighter. I have comforted my sad heart with the thought that you are a bottle of positivity and heaven would be a perfect place for you. Since then, I thought of the times when I would have weary good night dreams and sad daydreams about you. I seem not to run out of prose to write about my unrequited love, of a little crush that has never known closure, of a special friendship that I will forever miss. I guess I cannot stop writing love letters to heaven just yet. It is taking me forever to forget you but could I blame you? That smile. Those dimples. My heart cannot rest with thoughts of you. There will never be goodbyes for now, as my heart continues to ache. It feels bad to be among the people who were not given the chance to say goodbye to you, the boy who will never know that I love him.


Chasing Daydreams

All it took was another old song for all unfulfilled fantasies and remote daydreams to come back to me.

I used to play an old song in my mind, back in the days when all I had was an illusion of a future of us together. It stayed an illusion no matter how many replays. The song sang about waking up. Ironically, it made me want to be stuck in my favorite daydream, where I could set an MV of the song, as how I would want things to turn out for the two of us: waking up to a beautiful morning, with you watching me as I sleep, waiting for me to open my eyes, and finally having the chance to ourselves to say what we truly felt: how happy you make me feel and how much you have been waiting to tell me that you are fond of me too.

In my make-believe MV, I was supposed to wake up to three words I have been dreaming to hear from you. But I never had the chance to change how the song ended, be it in my daydream or in reality. No matter how many times I played it, no matter how many times I rehearsed that one morning as a moment of truth in my illusioned MV, I never got to that moment of truth.

The song ended just as how it should be, with you still not able to admit what you felt about me, how you also wanted to be with me. The song faded as it supposed to, with you taking the hesitation to wake me up and deciding the next chance to admit what your heart wanted to say. There was never a next chance. There was no reality waiting for us.

You left me with nothing but a daydream of what-if’s and a song of what could have been.

You were just a daydream, a terrifying and tormenting one, whenever I think about how the clouds with thoughts of you can and will never go away.

Why did you not wake me up?

It pains me up to this day that this song has to make me realize each time that this fantasy, this daydream, has kept me a prisoner of slumber for almost an eternity. Still, a needle is pricked upon my heart, hurting, whenever I think about how much joy you have brought to my life simply by being there as someone who is never, who was never, who have never been, who can never be mine.

Would it have changed how I listen to this song now if you actually had the next chance and I actually had the moment of truth? Would you have taken that chance at all? Would the truth be the one I had been waiting for after all?

I guess I have forever to chase this bad daydream away.

No matter how many times I play the song again, you can never undo the ache that comes with the thought of you, for you have become the song’s every chord. There will never be a next chance. There will never be a moment of truth. This is my wake up call, stuck in a sweet refrain.

What do I do with the saddest love song that you have given me?

Of Missing Mood

I still see you. I still feel you. I still hear you. I still speak of you.

I guess my senses will always perceive you even if I can no longer meet with you, cling on to you, listen to you or talk to you. It has been 14 years, but no one has ever taken your place in this quiet void inside my heart that continues to long for a friend who has all the right words to say, whose mere presence says everything that life refuses to give meaning to.

You were the only person who knocked on my heart, begging the monster that had taken over me to bring my old self back because you thought it was not like me to shut everybody out. To ask to be left alone. To just accept the fact that everyone was turning their back on me. You did not yell at me because I was being stubborn to accept my flaws. You wrote me a letter instead, opening it with the words: “knock knock? Is my best friend there? Can you please bring her back?” You just thought maybe I was just going through a bad day, menstrual cramps or whatever, and understood me completely. Then you waited for me to open the door. Of course there was no door. It was only a magic from your prose. And I will never forget that day. I cried hard in isolation because you all left me as I asked you to, but I was being stubborn, eaten by my pride, to come to you. That day taught me how to say sorry even if the why’s were vague because you needed your friends back and they won’t take you back until you destroy the walls you built yourself.

I was glad you knocked when all of them slammed the door on me.

From time to time, I still get consumed by that monster you thought to be eating me. Bad days do not last forever but they do come around, and they would, forever. I still want to be left alone on bad days. I still let people turn their backs on me when I cannot insist on them to embrace my flaws. I still shut everybody out when words run out, when all the talking is done and exhausting. And it gets lonely and tiresome at times. No one dares to knock anymore. There has been no one but you who could choose the right words to say that would tear me into pieces just so I could hem my tattered spirit back again.

And I miss you each time.

Whenever someone leaves me words on sticky notes or scratch pads: a cheer, a reminder, a quote, I am reminded of the many notes we used to pass on to each other, and the letters we used to send, that chronicle how our days had been, because we did not belong to the same class, and you were seated next to my crush and I was seated next to yours. We had to hide behind codes for the stuff going on that needed real-time updates, then when sms, pms, dms, tweets and statuses did not exist to save us from the trouble of getting caught. As we ceaslessly wrote to each other, it was the love for writing that bloomed more than the unrequited love we both waited for from our seatmates. You molded my way with words with your beautiful ways of saying things. You were always a pleasure to read. You showered me with quotes every single day, and I owe from you the adage that has become my mantra: Don’t just flow with life; make waves. Yes, you gave this priceless quote to me, and it shall ripple on.

Thank you for believing in me.

You were always the most thoughtful one. You always put me first in thought, in words, in feelings. Sometimes I had felt quite a burden to our friendship because you were always worried of me when I could not even take a second glance at myself. When I did not want to join the slumber party because I was too tired to plan out what to wear, you drew me on a piece of construction paper, with labels from head to toe as to how I should bring in myself to the party. From the way I should do my ponytail, to the top I must wear (with a naughty reminder to shave because you have chosen a haltered or sleeveless one), even the belt (because you thought plain jeans were boring), down to the footwear— I wondered how you had all the time in the world to memorize my lame fashion sense, the limited outfit I owned, and my obvious tendencies to avoid the party because I’d rather be sleeping. I can still picture that portrait that you had on me on some loose sheet of paper lying around the bench that day. High school was too long ago but I think I still get conscious on how I must do my ponytail because you believed that I look better when I wear it higher. I am forever grateful for your honesty, sincerity and concern. I was the ugly one, but you had made me see beauty in myself.

And I’m glad that I believed you.

Sometimes, whenever I come across a nice quote, a good book, thoughts on post-its, whenever I hear or read an unexpected little cheer, honest affirmation or sincere appreciation to my mere existence, whenever I am being looked after, cared for, worried about, I would like to believe you are trying to let me see you, feel you, hear you, or talk to you because you miss me too. Because I cannot stop missing you. Because there will never be anyone like you, but I can no longer run to you. Without you here, you still make me feel that I am worth all your while to be thought of.

What have I done to deserve your eternal and selfless love?

Just so you know, I still see you. I still feel you. I still hear you. I still speak about you. I will do, for all of my life.

I love you , Kate. Always.

Of Science and Faith

“You won’t find faith or hope down a telescope. You won’t find heart and soul in the stars. You can break everything down to chemicals, but you can’t explain a love like ours.” -Science and Faith, The Script

Sometimes I wonder how my biology, my chemistry and my physics will ever be superior over my basic human knowledge, or at least be a healthy match to my common sense. These so-called branches of knowledge always keep me up at night trying to make sense out of things I could not even figure out. How could I live a life of accuracy and balance when I doubt the sincerity of symbiotic relationship, when I do not fully trust the strength of covalent bond, and when I cannot fully embrace the law of inertia?

I do not speak the language of science, but science speaks to me on a daily basis, making me think immensely of things that matter in a scale that my faith finds too deep to fathom at times. My science moves with me every single time, and no matter what complexity it brings and leaves me arid for answers, I could not last a day without its sweet torment of making me resort to thinking and question everything that transpires over the day, the month, the year, even the minutes and the seconds.

Symbiosis is a good thing, but sometimes I feel like it is just a lame excuse for some people to make up for the limitations that they are too naive to surpass. Reliance as a virtue becomes corrupted, when people take advantage rather than work hard and earn justly their spot in this planet. 

Similarly, most people promise they have your back, only to realize in the end that they have your back to stab. You bleed for them anyway, because you believe that you still have to be human, until you bleed to death for betrayal that you have become a monster yourself. 

If this is how tragic dependence or having someone to rely on turns out, why do I have to help keeping a balance? 

I cherish mutualism anyway.

There is strength in unity, inspiration in reaction, and joy in interaction. These realities seem divine, like the power of an atom. Still, to keep a bond, you have to be necessarily strong. This is where I feel insecure about bonds, and I hope it is just normal to feel this way. 

I guess no matter how hard you try, at some point, you will wear out and get consumed. If not you, others would. We do not have the monopoly of power in this world. When times like this come, it will almost feel impossible to hang on or even find a string to hang on so the bond won’t snap. Eventually bonds do break. No. Matter. How. Hard. You. Try. Well this is life: you lose some, you gain some, you share some. That is just how it is. 

Knowing there will always be bonds is a nice deal after all.

I hope my high school physics memory serve me right that inertia has something to do with the fact that something not moving will never move, and something moving will continue to move, unless something else (a force maybe) affects it. How I wish life was that simple! Or is it really? As if we have a lot of choices in this life to wait for a force to get us moving or keep us moving. I hope I am not the only one believing that this life is unfair, because it is. 

Who would not want to stay in bed all day? To not set the alarm for the next day? To not think about tomorrow? To not have plans? And yet make life happen? Physics does not work accurately in most lives I’ve known. You have to move and keep moving even if there seems to be zero motivation to get going because life will not stop for you. It is just how it is.

 With or without a choice, with or without force, we all have to get moving. Being stuck is just an illusion. Keeping pace is a mere diversion. Being ahead on track is but a dream. This life is all about moving and that is all. 

The good thing though is, there will always be somewhere, and that is beautiful enough to look forward to.

My science sustains me, no matter how messed up it can be. Just like faith, it reminds me that there is more to life, to existence. That is why thinking is good, even if thinking exhausts you, keeps you up all night, frightens you, saddens you, confuses you, challenges you, weakens you, kills you. If I were not to think, what will I ever do to the endless questions that my mind generates? It is not like I have the power to make the birth of questions stop. I barely have answers in this lifetime. Faith, however, assures me, that there are answers; some answers just take time. My science is probably a mess. Still I am grateful for I have faith.

I guess I will continue to get by in this life with a little reason and a little wonder.


Too wordy. 

I get that remark all the time. What if I would be given the chance to appear unedited, like my written thoughts were a director’s cut of a film? How I wish I would truly have that chance and still not be judged for my syntactic struggles.

Whenever the tip of my pen is about to code overlapping dependence, or attempts to build excessive modification, I know my musings are about to turn into nightmares. Still, like drug to my diction, I allow the manuscript to be heavy on words, because suppressing the “breathings of my soul” might just suffocate me or leave me dry. 

Sometimes, fragments are the riddles I’ve been looking for to stitch together the broken pieces of the entire truth. I find pleasure in using numerous fragments to trigger nerve impulse by every torn tale, ripped reality and fractionated feeling. I know there is a more grammatically acceptable structure than my disintegrated dogma, but sentence fragments are the literary bricks that complete my thoughts. Without them, I might break apart. Literally.

Consider revising.

This is the expert advice I often get, and rarely consider. I have tried resolving this internal conflict I have with the writer who writes and the writer who’s right, trapped inside me. I am not done trying yet though. I still have debate skirmishes inside my head if I wish to be a writer or right-er because trying to be both seems to be an endless struggle. 

And I just want to write. Does it have to be that hard?


Words are all I have, which is why I sometimes do not have enough of them to express substantially my point, so I end up saying “actually” or “technically” over and over. In the same way, at times,  I only have  a word or two to deliver my exact point, like “exactly” or “precisely.” These verbal tics, annoying as they seem, turn out to be the excellent choices for conversation starters and terminators after all. 

What would I ever do without them? 

We have all been in boring and not so boring classes in high school, and the only thing that has kept us entertained is drawing sticks on our notes to tally a word that our teacher would say over and over again. As we grow older, we realize that some old habits die hard, and we continue to build fences on memo pads whenever we are trying to make it out alive of a staff meeting or conference, because the one presiding seems to end each statement with the same word. 

Sometimes, we wonder, there are over a hundred thousand words in the dictionary, but why do people have to keep on repeating but one?

What is more interesting is, to some people this tic manifestation is categorized as a disorder. While parents of children with autism worry over their children’s pathological speech behavior, here I am, merely making a complex deal out of my self-diagnosed palilalia, as my own form of withdrawal from being annoyed with myself, because denial and anxiety get the best of me whenever my mind stalls for a better way to enunciate my thoughts. While it is a disurbing language disorder to some teens and adults, we belong to that portion of the class perhaps who take this disordered speech patterns of our teachers or colleagues as a thing to make fun of. 

Why is that?

Amidst burning issues and challenging situations, we do run out of better words to say and take diction for granted, to a point that we trigger the red light for language check. Still we scald our tongue with words like “crap” and “damn” (I have to filter the real words for these two) over and over again, meant or half-meant. I guess this is the same feeling when we say “okay” or “alright” though we never mean them, because these are all we can comfortably say to avoid having to explain ourselves or telling the truth about our feelings. This is the same as well when we say “I was like” or “you know” when there isn’t really something like it or no one really knows, but we say it repeatedly anyway because we “literally” have nothing else to say. 

Are we better off running out of words to say then? If I do, what do I say?

Non-linear Thoughts

I am starting to believe my brain is a briefcase of graphic organizers.

How I wish I could sort my thoughts in compartments and mentally label them, each time I have to challenge my own reasons behind decisions that I make by every turn of the clock.

 How I wish I could trace back the dots I connect in my mind in a trail of wise guesses and second guesses just the same, each time I demand from myself the validation of my own principles. 

How I wish I could cross over timelines in my brain and relearn or unlearn the tricks and trades of banal existence, each time I look for better options than the ones that I thought were already the best.

How I wish I knew how to declutter my brain, because I am beginning to feel that this mind map I carry with me is not only divine but also deadly.