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.


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. 


Coffee never asks questions. Coffee understands.

There comes a point in your life when silence turns out to be your dearest friend, and coffee keeps you both satisfied, although it can never pour fillings through the holes in your heart.

My love affair with coffee is more than just a fad or fling. Coffee has saved me from a lot of raw truths I could have said in the wrong way. In numerous instances, coffee has kept me from making a big deal out of harsh realities that were better pondered on and left unsaid. If I were just drinking coffee for the heck of it, I would not act like my life were dependent on it, because it truly is. It is not an act. I am truly living with a strong reliance on coffee to fuel me, to sustain me, to resuscitate me, to restore me.

Coffee is both lifeblood and lifeline. 

I am trying to be hopeful that this dependency is not a bad thing, because sometimes, (or most often than not) I credit to caffeine the tiniest drop of confidence I have to face daily mundanities. Living a life measured by coffee spoons is reality for me, even if there may be shades of meaning along with it. I have had my fair share of misfortunes but most of these frustrations have been caffeine-fixed.

Still, though a potent stimulant, there are a lot of actualities that coffee can never change, heal or subdue, whichever is necessary. Coffee can only help get past murkiness and sharpen the edges. To me, this is more than enough consolation. 

Give me coffee or give me death. I rest my case.


Some people live beautiful lives and they take pleasure in being wanderers. Some people live unfair lives beautifully and they find joy in being loiterers.

The first time I encountered the term ‘loitering’ was when I was a grader. All over the hallways of my school back then were reminders stating “NO LOITERING ALONG THE CORRIDORS” and student leaders took the rule seriously by dragging to the office of the Principal whoever was caught staying along the corridors. I have always thought loitering as illegal, a bad thing to do, a violation. Today, loitering to me is salvation.

To loiter is to stay in a place for no reason at all…to lag behind…to stop idly delaying something…It isn’t a crime at all as I used to think of it when I was a grader. At the moment, loitering is saving me from overthinking, stressing over and worrying about fickle matters.

Days have been passing me by and each passing day I seem to lose a part of me to frustrations when I am fully aware that there is a great deal of joy I am putting away just so I can bleed over the wrong decisions I have made in the past. I carry the weight of the past around allowing it to slow me down to where joy truly is and weighing me down instead of being strong enough to afford a simple smile. Short or long, the days have left me depleted, drained and devastated. Until one day, I decided to walk aimlessly. Then I decided to keep still. That was then I knew what I have been missing.

Walking aimlessly may sound like I have gone nuts or something. But the real score is, I have been walking around, sometimes chasing, running and leaping for things I would never have the power to control, and I have never given myself the opportunity to see myself in the very things that I just allow to pass me by, like the days that were supposed to have been spent with a better purpose than just having to get it over and done with. As the passing days consume me, I do not even recognize myself anymore. I have lost me.

So I have stopped and stared at familiar and unfamiliar places alike, hoping to find myself again. There are pieces of me everywhere and I have been too busy brooding to notice that even broken pieces show a beautiful story. I am everywhere, and I have to be a loiterer to be able to attract back to me the wondrous pieces I have thrown out because I do not want to be reminded of how unfair life is (truth is, life is really unfair, but someone told me that life is unfair but is still beautiful, and I believe him). In stopping by without purpose, stepping back a bit, staring while in senseless stops, I have seen once more how beautiful this life can be.

Even though I cannot promise myself that I will never have to lose my way again, I know that I can never be completely lost. Even though I cannot promise myself that I will never have to slice pieces of myself up, I know that I am not beyond repair; I can be fixed. That is the salvation from being a loiterer.


Some people live beautiful lives and they take pleasure in being wanderers. Some people live unfair lives beautifully and they find joy in being loiterers.


So just let me stop and stare.