“Because, if you could love someone, and keep loving them, without being loved back . . . then that love had to be real. It hurt too much to be anything else.”
― Sarah Cross, Kill Me Softly
You were wearing a white jersey, breathing heavily as you ran, catching up for the ball, playing a game that you knew you’d lose—that’s when I first saw you.
I would’ve loved to talk about how much you swoon me with your rare, very, non-frequent, non-existent, and almost extinct smiles along with your panda-like eyes (I still like it, somehow). Or maybe how my heart would squeeze tight whenever I would receive an early good morning text from my late good night one’s, and how I remembered laughing whenever we’d make jokes on “Saan ba bahay mo?” and your “99 lang” every Saturday night. But, how about no? How about I tell you—describe to you what I felt when I first saw you? The shivers that ran through me, that breath-taking moment that made me fail one quiz on my only math subject—how about I tell you how I held my breath everytime you’d fall on the court’s wooden floor, my eyes never leaving your side, and how I’d stand all by myself just to clap for every three-points you make. How about I tell you about you?
You weren’t the exact guy I saw on court two years ago. You were so much more. They say what you least expect would give you the biggest impact. You were my most unexpected. That’s probably the reason why for the past two years, I never forgot the look on your face when you won the game against my school. For two years, I gathered my courage to fight my way into your life. I worked hard. I wanted to be part of it. And to God’s will, I made it halfway through. I may be imagining things, but an unseen wall blocked my way inside your heart. Whenever I’d get closer, you’d always silently back away. You keep telling me you’re tired, but you’d still argue with me. You’d tell me that I’m annoying you, but you’d still keep me company. You never noticed me in any of your games, but you’d see me when I don’t want you to. You’d tell me you never said that you love me, where in fact, boy, I never asked. I never said that I do. And then on one fateful night, you asked me why I liked you—why wouldn’t I? How could I not? Can’t I? Is it such a bad thing for me to do so? For me to feel this way? It’s like you’re saying that I shouldn’t. That I should end such meaningless things. And that I shouldn’t linger and make a big deal out of everything. I never did.
Before I end this, how about I tell you something that you’ve probably thought of before? Something that flashed before your mind. Something they’ve realized earlier than I did. And as I end this, I’d like to take the memory of you from two years ago; the you that made me happy when you ran fast towards your teammates, shouting and smiling as you screamed “Yes!”. It may sound stupid, but here goes another again that would probably, may happen. At two in the morning, I’m writing about you for the first and last time.
As I watched you play today, amidst the entire audience below, I saw how you let the ball bounce away from your hand. I stood there, heart pounding, breathing heavily, catching up on you—playing a game that I knew I would lose—that’s when I realized that I already love you.
Throwing every feelings left, here’s my “Last na ‘to”.
(c) Cheyeanne Maryz “Panda” Dauz, News Editor for STELLARIS