starving artist

That monochromatic night was my last moment with him (aside from March 14) . Or I thought it was.

After graduation, instead of spreading SPFs on our bodies and running along the shores of Bora, my classmates and I sunbathed under the gloomy reviews of our professors in preparation for the licensure exam. And since I programmed my systems to be in a vacation mode (I promised myself to get a decent vacation after 8 years–including highschool years— of studying hard, playing hard, partying hard, writing hard, and trying hard), I usually find myself coming late in the afternoon, sliding myself on one of the seats near to the venue’s exit and wasting my ink on sketches instead of taking down notes or rereading last month’s Readers Digest.

One of those supposed-to-be vacation afternoons, Heaven and I decided to take a break/ semi-escape. We went outside the building and found comfort inside Lift bottles and packs of Onion-flavored Skyflakes.

"’Ngita ‘ta bala obra, ‘Ven?" I told her in a sudden. I was bored and a hint of jealousy crept into me when my almost half of my classmates told me that they got a job.

"Ano ‘bi?"

"Matutor ‘ta sa Koreans or ma-call center." I answered though I know neither of the two is in my job list. Just for the sake, ika nga.

While I was making progress in convincing Heaven that teaching Koreans may not be bad at all, a classmate to be named as Check popped out of nowhere.

"’Pod ko! D’in kamo mangita?" Check interrupted.

"’La pa gani. Mangita pa lang," Heaven answered.

"Lakat ‘ta bala subong," I suggested though I know the two didn’t like to be absent in our reviews. I waited for some dagger looks.

"Malakat lang ‘ta bala," Check said, drowned in her thoughts of job hunting.

"Oo ay!" surprisingly, Heaven enthusiastically blurted out.

We walked and walked as fumes served as light foundation. We went to an English center beside Gaisano City and asked if there are vacant posts for tutors. The pretty receptionist looked at us, raised an eyebrow, and said , "We will just give you a call."

Oh, come on. Don’t you have other lame synonyms for rejection? I wanted to answer back but my companions invited me to go downstairs.

Under a 4 o’ clock heat, we walked toward Atrium, St. Paul’s, and San Agustin. When we reached JD Roadhouse, Check suggested that we should eat something.

"’Di lang a. Didto lang ‘ta sa mga tiangge lapit sa UP.Maka-save pa ta," I said. I only got a hundred in my pocket.

"Oo man," Heaven seconded.

Upon reaching a store in front of UP, we ordered ice-cold bottles of Coke and two five-peso packs of bread. We gobbled the pieces of bread, gulped the acid-like Coke, and talked about the "new graduate’s syndrome."

"Lakat ‘ta sa Callbox. Last na lang," I insisted after the two decided to go home.

"Okay, since lapit na man lang kita," Check agreed.

We started walking again, crossed the street, went to the main building of Callbox (beside Goodyear), and inquired on the requirements on how to become one of the CSRs.

Manong guard robotically answered, "Ha? Pass n’yo lang resume n’yo a… Kay tawgan lang kamo…"

"Ah, okay," I answered and made some sense on his answer. I’m sure they will call us. After all, it’s a call center.

Before I burst into fits of laughter because of my kakornihan, I told my friends to get off the building.

"’Teh, ano na ‘ni?" Check asked us.

Teh ano na gid man? We’re new grads. We have freedom. They want us. I don’t want them. Will I work just for the sake of having money or what? I want to grab Check by her collar and shake her with my ma-drama questions.

I tried to look at the zooming jeepneys for answers instead. The passengers, however, seemed to bear a letter on their foreheads as if they’re choices in a multiple choice quiz.

So I stopped and looked at Heaven who tugged my sleeve and whispered, "Starve*, si ano man na…"

"Ha?"

"Uy, si ano* man na sang _college_," Check blurted out.

It was too late; I saw him walking towards us, smiling. What the?!

"Hello," he greeted. "Gaano kamo ‘di?"

I didn’t answer as I turned into stone, again. How I wished I camouflaged with one of the building’s posts.

"Nag-inquire kami diri," Check answered, saving me from another humiliation I was making for myself.

"Aaaa… May ara pa gid bala nga bag-o sa likod sang Rob," he said as he stood beside me.

Sheeet… I wasn’t ready for that; my shirt’s soaked with perspiration, my hair’s frizzy, and I looked like I need a slap of pink on my cheeks.

"Di’n ka ya halin?" Check asked him as I took that opportunity to be hypnotized by his smile.

"Ha? Dira-dira lang."

"Mauna kami," I suddenly said and dragged Heaven. Stone me, but his presence’s killing me in a bittersweet manner.

I didn’t turn back to see if he’s still there. I didn’t. I was afraid to find he wasn’t there anymore. But I was more afraid to see him, standing and smiling.

I went home tired of the walkathon and tired of him and his unexpected surprises. Where was he before he went to us? Did he see us or did we pass him by? Why did he walk towards us when he doesn’t even know my classmates? Why did he have to do that? (Voice insert: He’s just being friendly, you assuming…)

Endless assuming questions marched in my mind and as I tried to push them back, I realized that this "kahangalan" must be stopped once and for all.

But how? When he’s in the shadows, in the folded pages of my college notes, in my phone’s address book, in my Friendster (kon i-erase ko ‘to siya, obvious na guid eh), in the frame of my eyeglasses, in the calendar, in my systems, in my significant day, in the zipper of my bag, in the moon and in the stars? And even in the puddles of rain?

I can’t shake him off me. He’s in the city. His aura lingered in the air (and still is). And he’s driving me crazier. He didn’t see that, of course, until now that I’m almost over him. He will never see that.

I wish I can rip my heart out of my system - still pumping, vessels curling up, scarlet red droplets dripping on his Chucks in a silent trip-trip manner— hand it to him and say, "My heart beats for you, not I." (cont.) 

Delaying the process of moving on is impossible… If you have decided to move on, then go for it. It may seem impossible at first but if you take two or three steps a day, you can survive.

And while under the process, you realize many things. You will remember not only the negative but also the positive.

Well, this is not exactly one of my "serious" blogs. I’m just dropping by. Creative writing is soooo addicting and I’m into it for 9 years (elementary trying hard echus not included). Cheers!!!

I want to write it all down—squeeze the contents to its last drop, hoping that I can capture and net down the feelings, events, people with words and let the words speak instead of me (because basically I am a shy person).

I thought everything will be all right after I brushed my emotions against the paper… But when people who know me started to ask questions I hoped were answered by my works, I realized that writing it isn’t enough.

Some offered good advice that if applied, could get me to him. I even met people who were in the same position where I am today, told me their stories and made me realize that I’m not the only one. Others asked why? I should have answered them, why not? The rest supplied me with what-ifs. No, don’t get me wrong; I know they’re just trying to help me with this foolish situation. I am stubborn and stupid, I know. But please do understand me. We’re all different, really.

If only I can let them feel what I feel by just a tap of my fingertip, sending the dreading pain, recurring hate, seemingly-endless agony that led me to decision of giving up, I don’t need to write it down anymore.

Let me be me. I’m a big girl now. No, they say. How will you know if you won’t try this and that; you’ll regret things one day. It’s a given— to regret over things that should have been. But I’ve decided to move on and nothing’s stopping me now. Because journeying through the dead trees and dark pathway of Moving On St., I learn more about myself and that I can handle my life.

And this is how I handle my life— with, not through, writing.

Though I was able to record the (un)fortunate events of my potential love life, there were some that I wasn’t able to, unfortunately. But as I am trying to remember those unrecorded ones, I realized that they’re more significant and detailed…to me, that is. It’s as if I’m just recalling the MCR videos I watch every night.

Well, there were only three unrecorded yet significant events though. The first one happened this way (then you imagine there’s a soft music in the background, coupled with twinkling effects):

After erasing the notes I made on the board, I folded the visual aids I printed the night before, gathered my lesson plan book and other books, and left the room of noisy 2nd years who were talking about Hale and music.

I headed to our table, which was located inside the TPF building, and took a seat, facing Heaven who was doing her lesson plan for the next day as I started checking some papers. We chatted for while on the artistic discipline we employed for the day and returned to our work.

Two hours of talking and standing in front of a class made me hungry, but I preferred to finish what I was doing and eat with Heaven later. I got so absored with all the checking that I didn’t hear Heaven’s "pst’s."

I looked at my left to relax my eyes from the bloody papers in front of me, but I saw a bloodier scene (voice insert: yeah, right). I saw him walking towards the building with M.A.

"Hala!" I mouthed to Heaven. She just smiled and pretended not to see what’s happening. What a reply, my friend. So I tried to relax and concentrate with the papers but prayed at the same time that they’ll just pass by when I heard M.A.’s voice. 

"*Starving Writer, si *ano gali."

"Ay, hi!" I said with a quick smile and looked at the papers again. Please leave, I silently prayed. I noticed, however, that they have ice tea and chichiria, Pillows to be exact.

Great. Ma-chika pa ni gali ‘ya sila… Huhuhu

I looked at Heaven, hoping for any rescue on the situation. I tried mental telepathy: "Ven, lakat na ‘ta sa office. Hear me…Heeeeaaaar meeee…." Hay… It seems that my friend’s receiver’s off or lowbat.

"*Starve (para kuno short cut), Pillows o," he said, handing me an unopened pack of chocolate-filled pillows. Uy, ready siya ha. (voice insert: Assuming na naman a. He gave you food ‘coz you looked hungry. Wah!)

"Ha? ‘Di ko a... Ven, ‘kaw?" I asked Heaven, trying my best not to look at his eyes.

"No thanks," Heaven replied.

"Sige na," he said.

"Okay. Thanks ha," embarrassed again, I took the Pillows from him. We ate in silence until M.A. arrived from nowhere (that’s also the time I realized she left us).

Because I was so cheesy and corny flakes (corn kernels mixed with cheese is delicious no), I kept the foil pack of the Pillows that he gave me though I wanted a real pillow. Yadi pa ‘to ya, I told myself before. Now that I’m letting go and keeping on moving forward, I need to look for it, cut it into thin strips and stuff inside one of the recycled pillows my mother makes.

In the second one, he didn’t share food but he showed another side of him— the singer. I was with my high school friends during a monthly-unplanned little reunion. Our gathering, however, is never without a blast with videoke so we went to Bibo.

The ex-class songbird and a frustrated music major belted out, as if the little room was a centerstage full of awe-struck audience (but there were only four of us). When it was already my turn to hold the golden mic and tweet, the door opened and there he was. My friends, who are now also his(long and different stories), invited him to go inside and sing with us.

His presence made me wish that I was not there. I also thought of making an excuse of going out and shop (shop the mall air for free) but M.A. and the rest wanted to torture me with his presence. He’s a singer, a friend butted in, crashing my perfect get-away plan.

He chose a song, a Josh Groban song (what else?), and tortured me endlessly. M.A. had her eyes on me, recorded my every imaginary pain, and mocked me more with annoying giggles.

I thought I was going to die. My suffering did end when he finished the song, accepted our praises (I also had to contribute. Basi mahambal siya, ‘la ko nanami-an), and left for another appointment.

In the memory of his quick stay, I sang "Crazy for You" (no need to explain why).

The third one was cinematic; it’s as if there was a director behind the school’s bushes and his assistant directors were helping him convince the students to go home early. But I had no script; he didn’t have a clue. We did an impromptu.

That evening, I just finished directing a stage play with my group and overseeing the works of my creative team when M.A. texted me that she’s in the next building. With the thought that we’ll be having dinner together, I went there as fast as I can only to find out that she’s not hungry —and she’s with him, working on with a school must-do.

My hunger overpowered my feelings for him so I walked outside the university—alone— and had a quick dinner.

When I returned, they were still working and even managed to insert a badminton game while I forced myself to read the only magazine within my reach- YES magazine.

Probably reading my boredom, he started explaining why they’re playing; it’s for mental workout daw and in advertising companies in Manila, they usually have a game area inside their buildings, etc. I know, I want to tell him that I’m not dumb or I didn’t get the reason behind why they’re not working.

I convinced myself that I have to go home so I started to check if everything’s inside my bag. "Mauna ko, guys," I told them, standing from my seat.

"Hulata na lang kami," M.A. said. "B’was naman ‘ni a."

I didn’t have any choice but to wait for them though I really wanted to flash out asap. After the door was locked, I asked M.A. if she and her roommate were going outside. No, they replied.

"Upod na lang kamo ni ano* g’wa," M.A. said, displaying her evil smile.

I threw her a dagger look, then moved to where he was, and said our goodnights to the girls. We started walking toward the gate, which is only three to six minutes but it seemed like eternity to me.

The whole university was so quiet; I could only hear the leaves brushed against another, the melody of sirum-sirums, our light footsteps against the pavement, and our controlled breathing.

The props director did her job very well as the whole university had almost all of its lamp posts turned on, giving off a monochromatic effect to our "only us" scene. Our blocking was almost perfect as we only had like 5 inches away from each other. Since we don’t have scripts, we tried our best to supply the lines.

"Diin ka gapuli," he asked me. Probably,he noticed that I will never talk unless spoken to.

"Sa Jaro. Ikaw?" I asked him back to make the conversation longer.

"Sa *bleep* (somewhere not so far out there— where my father buys his favorite lechon manok)," he replied.

Awkward silence, only our footsteps were talking to each other. I don’t know what he’s thinking that night or during the time when we’re walking. I only snatched glimpses of him, tracing his features with my stare, starting from the contours of his chin up to the his nose, his cheeks, and his eyes.

"Ano gani ang puwede masakyan pakadto Smallville?" He asked after almost two dead minutes of silence, breaking my gaze, which was then caressing the strands of his hair.

"Depende kon sa diin ka maagi," I replied, wondering if he’s just stupid of not knowing how to get to Smallville since he almost rides the jeep everyday (though I know they have a tarak-tarak).

"Kon indi ka magtabok, sakay ka Jaro Liko then Sta. Barbara or Leganes. If matabok ka, Liko man gihapon and naog ka sa Jaro, then sakay kay Leganes," I continued, now fearing that he might get lost so I added, "Hambala lang ang driver." (Hahahahha!)

"Matabok ‘ko," I told him as our monochromatic-cinematic scene ended when we stepped outside the rusty gates of the university.

"Upod na lang ‘ta," he said.

Together, we crossed the road where he was on my left. I wanted to grab his hand and feel the creases of his palm, or move closer to him and link my arm around his. But I didn’t. Basi makibot siya kag maipit kami. Hehe.

Destiny is like a human being. At times, she feels tired and lazy, leading her not to do things right. Eventually, after her so-called rest, she will just shock you with overwhelming events and make you pinch yourself while muttering, "Is this true? Ouch! Yes, it is!"

And because I entrusted my potential love life to Destiny, I couldn’t do anything but prepare for unexpected things to come…

To get the events a little accurate, I have my guides with me— my 2005 and 2006 planners. My planners weren’t only records of what I did daily in those years, but it was also a semi-diary. Though I wasn’t able to record some cinematic scenes, I want to travel back to some of the important dates, for the last time. (To tell you honestly, I didn’t include some of the specific dates because…. well, I’m only human; I’m afraid he’ll be lost in the web and come across this blog…And I don’t want to scare him— again— now that we’re friends, though not close but an inch higher than acquaintances. And to set the record straight, I’m writing this blog as a to-forget therapy. Kaya nga these series of entry is entitled as such)

(Flip, flip) Hhmmm… So, February 18, 2005 was the date of the bike accident, where he blocked my way and if I just let myself fell off the bike, I could have fallen in his hands. Anyway…

Three months and a half passed. It’s June 18, Saturday. By this time, I was trying to push him out of my thoughts because I wanted to concentrate with my studies… It was a semi-rainy Saturday. I was in our office with the rest of my creative team, finishing the last sheets of posterettes for the pub’s annual screening when my beastfiend M.A. (short for Maya Anghela) invited me to take a break by going to the next building. I needed to stretch some muscles before doing another task, it was a good idea.

Nelly Fortado’s right—all good things come to an end. I found out that M.A.’s going to return his USB and I couldn’t turn back because we already set foot on the AS building. "I can do this. Kayang-kaya ko ‘ni. Lalaki lang na," I told myself.

His group, where one of my high school classmates was one of them, went out of their office, and met us in the hallway. M.A. returned his USB while I acted again as if he’s not there by talking my ex-classmate who will be named Leo. Now, when everyone’s ready to part ways, Leo suddenly exclaimed, "M.A.! Happy Birthday gali!"

I stepped slowly outside the group when everybody moved to kiss and hug M.A. when a voice asked me, "San-o imo birthday?"

Startled, I looked around if there’s a ghost or the building’s famous white lady beside me but instead, I saw him, waiting for a reply.

"Ha? Ako?" I asked for confirmation, fearing that the question was just a voice from my imagination. He didn’t answer.

"Five days from now," I answered, not looking at him.

"Ah…."

<deleted dialogues; this writer coulndn’t bear writing those dialogues down.Sorry.)

Nga-a, i-greet mo man ‘ko? I wanted to ask him as their group left.

When my birthday came, of course, I never received a message from him (voice insert: Ngaa i-greet n’ya man ka bi? Close kamo? Ako: Teh kay namangkot siya mo…’Bi ko…voice insert: Abi mo interested siya? Hahahaha! Namangkot man lang siya ‘ya! Lain mamangkot haw? Ambisyosa!). But I kept on glancing at my cellphone with the hope that he might just accidentally send me even a wrong message.

Okay, enough of the drama. Let’s move forward.

Night of August 31, same year. I ate at the nearest and cheapest carenderia from school, went home to change my practice teaching uniform to shirt and jeans, and headed quickly to CPU Rose Memorial where the concert of Hale and MYMP was about to start in a couple of minutes.

I texted M.A. if she’s around. She texted back that I should wait for her. When I saw her strutting down the stairs, she waved her hands up and down, muttering something.

"Ha? Ano?" I asked as I linked my arm to hers.

"Ari di siya!!!"

"Ows? So what?" I was there to see my then celebrity crush Champ of Hale perform and sing with my ever favorite MYMP, I told M.A.

"Oks ah," she replied with an evil grin.

We went inside, left our bags with M.A.’s dormmate, and went outside to grab something to eat. We headed towards the Thirsty booth when M.A. said "hi" to someone, to him rather.

"Oi! Ari ka man ‘di gali?" He asked upon seeing me.

"Ari ka man di gani," I replied pilosopo-ically and pretended looking at the menu of shakes.

"Sige ah, una kami," he said, then punched my left shoulder lightly. 

I turned into a slab of stone at that very instance and hoped that he will punch me again so that I will break into pieces. Instantly, I made a big deal out of it (I’m not alone, I know), wanted to grab him by the collar, and furiously ask him, "Ginsumbag-sumbag mo ‘ko ya haw? Friends ‘ta haw? Ha?!"

Another reason why I made it a big deal because I read somewhere out there in the world wide web, that it’s unusual for a guy to do something like that to people, especially if they’re not friends. (Moral lesson: Don’t listen to strangers.)

The rest of the night was cloud nine. Hale and MYMP did great, and so what he did to me.

November, still the same year. He went outside Iloilo for OJT. Great, now my eyes were somehow fixed on Mr. Hapee toothpaste smile. As if kami, I tried to tell myself: Resist the temptation! Temptation is not the sin; to be tempted is the sin!

A little fast forward, shall we? And came January 2006; new year, old flame. I heard that his OJT stint’s over and he’s back in school. But Destiny made me busier than previous months with a newsletter for accreditation, the annual literary folio for the college, and with the university week, so I didn’t have the luxury of stalking him.

Sisiw, I said to myself. I could see him naman during the pageant night. So I worked my heart and body out— slept in our office for days just to fit presswork and accreditation must-dos in the schedule, painted a mural on one of the outside walls of the school (where I dedicated it to him but the dedication was covered partly with dirt before he could read it— as if he will read it), and sold crackers to raise some fund.

Then, I discovered that my classmate (the one who had a crush on him when we went to Subic) told him my carefully guarded secret. Hay, buhay…

Maybe that’s the reason why during the pageant night as I entered the venue (where he was, looking handsome and elegant in his black barong), he threw me a weird look— weird, hurting look. Yet, I managed to write this on the planner: "He looked wonderful tonight… He’s so kakaiba from others (which I probably said because of his if-looks-could-kill stare)… He’s simply stunning."

A month passed by;it was already March and we were busy complying the requirements for graduation, some were put into a suspense state— if they’re a point higher and become magnas or if they’re a point lower and become students again for the next year—and most prayed, "Lord, please make this quick."

While most A-students from my department worried about getting laudes, I worried about how to say "hi" to him for the last time.

Ah, Destiny’s mood probably went fine on March 14, Tuesday. My

creative team and I went outside the university for lunch. As we’re about to cross the street next to our school, I saw him with his group.

Then, as if there’s someone who was controlling that scene, everything between us —sikads, cars, students— seemed to slow down and blur, and made ourselves more vivid to each other. 

"Hi Starving Writer*," he greeted me first.

"Hello," caught off-guard, I greeted back. Then I realized that everything happened so fast yet so slow at the same time—seconds froze when he said "hi", and the word "hi" lingered in the air for a matter of time before it disappeared.

That was the first time he greeted me again after a long hide and seek and this was a moment, my moment. (cont.)

"Is he or is he not?" And this was my question after the signs had been subtly revealed to me, stealing and modifying a scene from Macbeth.

"Yes, he is," my good friend Heaven would usually say, "because of the signs." (Oh, Ven. You’re such a good friend. Where are the rest like you?)

"Yeah right," my beastfiend Maya Anghela would butt in. (Are you my friend? Joke.)

And after hearing my story equally equipped with gestures, sounds, facial expressions and other add-ons, others just stared at me as if I just read 20 romance novels, some nodded their heads as if they have heard about it for a million of times, and the rest asked me in the most polite manner if I’m depressed. Can’t a gal have a potential love story scripted in heaven? (*toink) Ouch.

To see if he’s indeed the one, I tested myself in stupid ways like: if he likes what I like to eat, he’s the one; if he’s into arts, he’s the one; if it will rain (this was during the rainy season) every morning for five days, he’s the one; and other crazy ifs.

The first "if" came true: (flashback please!) When we went back to Manila after the seminar, the group separated into two to eat dinner. It was probably God who grouped us because some of my friends ate at McDo while we (there’s probably 8 to 9 of us) went for Burger King. We– I and he— ordered at the same time in different counters, three counters between us.

When we came back to our tables, as if it’s really scripted, we sat opposite to each other and found out that we ordered the same dish— terriyaki rice bowl with bottomless ice tea.

"Ay, pareho ‘ta," he suddenly said. I just smiled, my way of not saying anything stupid again.

"Wala ka nasum-udan sa sauce?" he continued while I started gobbling up my terriyaki-laced rice.

"Wala man. Okay lang," I finally answered after taking a gulp from the tea.

After a slash of silence, he added, "Nasum-uran ko ‘ya."

The second "if" also came true. He’s into arts (great, yipee!). But though he is more skilled with a mouse than with a brush, he’s still considered as an artist. He also sings great, no kidding. I’m not saying this because he’s my crush. He sounds like Josh Groban, really.

And the third "if"? Well, the first day was MTV-like: me, walking towards my classroom for 7:15 am— in slow motion; then the sky did some sprinkling and moistening, leaving my face dewy. Oh, happiness.

On the second day, however, the sky was a little sad; it gave minutes of heavy tears.

The third day was like- Ako:"guys, ngaa may sun?" Fwend: "It’s morning, gurl. ‘La ka naman guro katulog kagab-i ‘no?"

The fourth day, my friends approached me and said, "Pst, ano ginakasubo mo da? Nag-away na naman kamo ni Nanay mo o ara imo?" Ako: "Wala a. Gusto ko tani mag-hibi." Fwend: "Ngaa haw?" Ako:"I will cry instead of the sky." Fwend:"Gapakadlaw ka? Joke ‘to?Tickle me, tickle me."

And on the fifth day… Fwend: "Ti, wala ka na pag-asa parts. ‘La naka-ulan for three days na." Ako: "May ara parts eh. Galing… lihog lang a(dala trapo sang back of my hand sa iya uniform). Fwend: "Wala huya."

Well, almost all of my crazy "ifs" failed me and just led me making foolish assumptions— which made me "assuming." That’s when I realized it’s not for me to control the situation, so I handed it over to Destiny. Plus, I don’t belive in coincidence.

"Destiny, destiny… daw si piho ka… It’s up to you na ‘ya. Remember what our T.H.E. teacher in high school said- ‘Life is what you make it’," blurted out by another friend when I told her about the destiny thing.

"Sa Serendipity gani…" I said, trying to convince her.

"Movie man na iya," she retorted back.

"Support man da bi ho…"

I ignored the other comments of my friends, then I prepared the driver’s seat for Destiny and drove me to him a number of times (voice insert: that’s because you’re in the same school, you…).

One Friday afternoon, (which is our university’s free day—meaning, we can dress in civilian clothes and we don’t have classes the whole day; we just have to attend to our organizations, school projects, and other academic stuff), I borrowed the mountain bike of our college pub photographer and zoomed my way towards the grand stand. (I normally biked around the campus and didn’t mind people or slow down because I didn’t want them to think that I was showing off or enjoying the ride in another way— whatever that means to you; biking was a stress-reliever to me back then.) Okay, back to the story.

As I was zooming toward the grand stand, there were groups of students coming my way. Out of nowhere (or because nga I wan’t looking), he blocked my way, which made me loose my grip on the bike for a few seconds; if not for my total concentration, I would have bruised myself.

He laughed, probably enjoying my embarrassment; "Buang," I said quickly before speeding off again.

As I made several twists and turns around the campus, I somehow regretted why didn’t I let myself fall when he blocked me; I should have fallen from the bike to his hands, we should have fallen together, or we should have fallen for each other… (Voice insert: You wish! Wahahaha!)                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    

Okay, okay. It’s just him and his friendly way of greeting me "hi." And it’s just me and my assuming self. Ha!

School year 2004-2005 ended and summer embraced us with its warmth. I didn’t see him again, which was good as I was able to concentrate with pub concerns.

After weeks of running after teachers, writing news articles of same topics as that of previous years’, spending a series of nights at a printing press in Baluarte for presswork on the college’s newsletter, and preparing our office for the enrollment, I felt the need to see him again.

It was my turn to run after signatures of some school officials for my scholarship, so I went office- hopping. In the AS building, I met another crush of mine (who was my classmate in Filipino 101, a hunk with a Happy toothpaste smile, and he’ll be in another story of frustration) and chatted for a while.

After saying goodbye, I rushed to the office of my classmate, scanned the whole area if there were monster advisers around (and there’s none), and giggled, laughed, and blushed like a high school student who got her first real love letter from a real person.

Then I heard a sound of a seat being moved behind the computer, and when I turned, I saw him staring at me as if he just saw a scene from PBB, dripping with ka-kornihan (but there’s no PBB during that time).

I signalled my friend that I have to get out of their office,asap, to run away from making another spoof and from him. After closing the door, I walked slowly down the hall and got lost in a crowd of students with blank expressions on their  faces because of enrollment procedures and fees.

Days after that, I managed not to see him (or pretended not to see him) because of the thought that I will melt if he sees me, with that embarrassing moment playing in his mind. But because Destiny wanted to do her job for me, things didn’t go my way. (cont.)

It’s hard to forget someone whom you like and love for years, but we are all trying to; I am trying.

I don’t have the talent of forgetting a person in a snap of my fingers. In fact, if it’s a subject- Forgetting 101- I already flunked it and am now bruised with all the removals and make-up tests.

"Move on," said this Carter guy in his forwarded emails to me (he’s this guy who has a book on relationship blah-blah and if my friends find out I’m reading his crap, I’ll be grilled with jokes). But how, dear, when all of these are easy said than done?

"Write it," one of my dearest friends said. Writing, as professed by a seasoned writer, buries our past with words. Okay then, I shall let go of this repressed depression… (Fingers crossed, I hope he will not come across my blog even if it’s under an alias…but who cares? Will he? Ha!)

When I was in high school, I got addicted to signs that I made some for my future better half. One, I must meet him in an airport (I was probably high with romance movies with endings of hugs and kisses in airports); two, his family name should be similar or close enough to mine (like his should start with the same letter or rhyme with that of mine); and three, he should sing my favorite song without my command. Cheesy…

The signs I made, however, were forgotten because I was busy with my studies; with making my neighbors believe I was an addict because I always talked on why I love the darkness, death, blood and gore (which is still true up to now); and investigated if our Research teacher was in a cult or just having a daily cup of his being messiahnic (or d___-nic, hehe). I didn’t even remember about the signs after high school grad.

College came. I was glued to studying in the morning, writing my articles for the college pub at night, island-hopping in Guimaras islands on scheduled weekend, and painting backdrops for classroom plays. Of course, I did have crushes from time to time- from a guy from another department to a student politician. But my interest for them lasted only for days, weeks, or a month. But never three years. (Okay, okay. This is it.)

One morning, I, along with the chosen ones from the university, went to the now defunct Mandurriao airport for a student congress in Subic. While waiting for my turn to be acknowledged by our acting adviser, I saw this tall guy talking to an older man who seemed to be his father. I wasn’t attracted to him at all; I was just curious if he’s from an extension of our school. As if planned, that was also the time when one of the chosen ones, who happened to be a close pal of mine and his, introduced us to each other and I found out he’s just a building away from me all those years.

Fast-forward. I didn’t take a good look of him as his eyes were covered by the tip of his cap (is is really called a tip?hahaha) but because my classmate had a crush on him, I took glimpses of him from time to time and wondered, "Ngaa lalagson ‘ni siya sang mga agi man?"

After hours of traveling, eating and sleeping, we arrived in Subic with our butts aching and heads dizzy. We carried our backpacks to the registration area, hoping that we can check in immediately and rest; only to find out that the accommodations got scrambled. It’s already dark when we checked in into a building that had the makings of the venue for Hostel VII or Wag Kang Sisigaw Part II.

A little flashback. During our first lunch in the place, we’re on the same table. One of our seniors requested me to get a cup of water for her and so I did. When I came back to the table, that senior asked me, "Lamig ang tubig?" "Lamig s’ya, Nang but indi gid lamig," I replied. Then he laughed. I sat down and wondered if I gave a stupid answer. But at least, we got some connection— blurry connection.

Fast forward again. After we left our bags of cement, er- clothes, in our rooms, we went to the function room in another building and attended the welcome program. Boredom bit us, however, so four of us —I, him, and two students from my department (let’s call them One and Zero)— went outside and looked for our group. The event seemed to be scripted because we never found the rest of the guys and off we went to our little night exploration.

Because One and Zero were friends, they paired off and we ended as a "no choice" pair. We then circled around more tall buildings and passed through bushes and trees where One and Zero chatted while we shared silence all through out our walkathon (And *sniff*, that was our first night together. Hahaha!)

Fast, fast forward. One morning, I heard soft knocks on our door. Being the first one who got up and fresh from the shower (thankfully), I opened the door and found him there, smiling and scanning our room if there were students who were up aside from me.

The scene of asks. First, he asked me if Miaw*,  was already up; I answered him she’s still asleep. Then he asked me if I have a comb; I said I have. Finally, he asked if he can borrow it; okay, we’re friends, I said to myself; so I handed him my comb and he returned it after combing his hair in a couple of seconds. After closing the door behind me, I said, "Weird. He’s rich and he doesn’t have a comb. Ironic." Well, I lost that historical comb when I was in fourth year but the feeling continued.

A voice insert: This is not a novel, you @$%*&!!! Finish it up!!!

Fast forward times five. When the seminar ended, our advisers agreed that we will go directly to Manila domestic airport, leave our luggage, and explore the sin-um, scene city. While we were traveling along the North Luzon Expressway (or was it South Luzon Expressway?), he broke the silence by singing a couple of line from my favorite song. Bells ringing?

My high school imaginings on signs rushed back and slapped me. The airport meeting. His family name’s close to mine (in terms of letters and not rhyme). The song.

That’s when I started asking my self, "Is he or is he not?"  (to be continued)

My father would be happier if I publish this blog under my real name but an understanding father that he always is, he wouldn’t mind if I don’t.

I am a Papa’s girl but I rather want to be referred to as my father’s daughter. I realized I wasn’t a papa’s girl anymore when I and my Tatay started sharing opinions about serious issues like politics and economics, religion and superstition; when I started talking him about my "gugma" for a down-to-earth artist and when he started sharing his stories about his girlfriends before Nanay; and so much more, it would take me a hundred lines and spaces to fill in. But last year, he showed me why he is my Tatay.

After graduation, I hungered for adventure that I told him I want to work in Manila and try new things out for my self; he agreed and even went with me.

For a month and a half, we did many things together and bonded. We walked around the streets of Manila because he wanted me to familiarize the streets not only by riding buses and jeepneys and to strengthen my "batiis". After looking, e-mailing and waiting for employers’ replies, we spent our afternoons under the shades of trees in Rizal Park while we observed rugby boys walked in euphoria. He tested my Manila map skills that he had to go to a certain place first and waited for me until I got there. He even went with me during my interview for a bank in Makati and during that time, I couldn’t help but think about what would these Makati guys and gals think of this high school-looking woman in her best attempt of a corporate attire, strutting in the subways of this so-social city; but I wasn’t embarrassed with the fact that I’m with my father. The vice-president of the company who interviewed me even praised my Tatay when he asked me who’s with me, which only made me a prouder daughter.

Moving on, my Tatay brought me to GMA complex- um, just outside the complex but that was enough– it was the greatest birthday gift from him because he knows how much I want to work there. Teary-eyed, we circled around its gates and went home happy.

When the bank accepted me after two weeks, it made me (because I passed the 3rd level test- Math skills, heheh) and my Tatay proud (because I finally got a job). So I packed my bags with a dorm mate from Asilo de San Vicente and moved to a nice boarding house in Makati (but later, it turned out to be a boredom house).

My Tatay decided to go back here in Iloilo because my Nanay missed him that much (they easily miss each other that my Nanay had to give up promotions and trainings).

As much as he wanted me to keep my "comfy" job (where 8 hours in airconditioned room made me whiter), I passed my resignation letter after my fourth month of smiling, greeting customers, teaching them how to use this and that, and what account is better and what’s not. I got bored with all the tarays I had with my roommates, with big malls, with Divisoria for Saturdays, with Chowking and McDo for dinner; and I never wrote anything meaningful except for the funny poem I made about my work and how I developed varicose veins— the only reminder of my first job. After wasting a bulk of my Tatay’s savings, I had to go home.

And just like in the story "The Prodigal Son", he welcomed me home with my maleta and bags full of books— my only vice. He never mentioned about his wasted expenses on me. He just nodded when I told him I had to find myself in two months, so I just stayed home, wrote, played the pc, watched all Korean and Japanese horror movies that I and my brother could find in Video City, and discerned.

After those two months (in between, I got a job at a local call center and phoned some Americans who just know the words "stupid", "b*tch", and &^#@!!!), I decided to go where my heart is- writing. And though I know a Filipino writer doesn’t earn much(well, except for some who work for someone big or big companies), I pursued this career far from my course. And my Tatay understands that I cannot offer them a house in Savanah, for now.

My Tatay is still supportive of me, as ever. He critiques my articles if it’s written just so-so, or it touched him. And that’s my Tatay— this short blog isn’t enough. I’ll write a book about him one day. And if he ever comes across this blog under my pseudonym, I hope a smile and a tear for his reply.

To my Tatay, to my reader, to the man who created me. Happy Father’s Day!