english,
To the girl I once loved,
You’re finally getting married tomorrow. How are you feeling?
I know it’s a bit sudden for me to be like this, writing to you at an ungodly hour. I’ve been thinking more and more these days about you. About us. To tell you the truth, they haven’t exactly been the most coherent of thoughts—well, I guess, except for one. I’ve been thinking that it’s time I let you in on a secret: I’ve always been writing to you unsent. Somehow, it’s one of the many things that calm down my easily-shaken-up heart, especially when I’m in dire need of comfort and some sort of outlet. I know, I know—you always tell me that I can share anything with you, because we’re best friends, and that I can trust you with anything. Don’t worry, I do.
Knowing you, you’re probably wondering by now how long I’ve been doing this for. Would you believe me if I told you that I’ve been doing this since we were kids? Still brace-faced, our cheeks flushed red from the glaring heat of the sun or from puberty that brought acne along with it; our minds still so youthful and our hearts filled with so much innocence and hope. It makes me chuckle now, remembering the goals and dreams we set for ourselves at such a young age.
As I look back on the day we earnestly talked about the paths we wanted to take for the first time, two high school students fill my vision. They’re in a home that speaks much of its history; its interior a warm color palette, filled with photos of family outings and friends, with paintings hung up almost everywhere, each one evidently done by a different person. It’s us in the comfort of your own home.
Born into a family of artists, it was no surprise that you wanted to follow in their tracks of craft as well. I wondered then if it was just the pressure that had driven you to pursue that path, but luckily, I caught the ghost of a smile lingering on your lips as you spoke, ridding me of those qualms. Then, you asked me something about art. I remember saying that I only knew a few famous artists, and when I got to mentioning Monet, you interrupted me with a light chuckle and said that you saw yourself in his work. You reasoned that it was because his pieces, or any impressionist painting for that matter, despite looking good from afar, once you get up close and personal—they only turn out to be this big, incomprehensible mess. Honestly, I wish I told you then that a mess isn’t such a bad thing to be.
There was stillness for a second, before a question broke the silence. You carried on, and asked if I thought you could amount to your brothers, your parents, your ancestors; if I thought you were even remotely on par with them. I didn’t miss the way your voice faltered at that, but I also didn’t miss a beat in saying yes to you. Just that question made me hark back to a short memory lane. Your illustrations, your artistry, and the way you used various, beautiful techniques were already top-notch, but how your face would light up every time you’d ramble on about art was nearly unparalleled; talking about its history, the theories encompassed in it and nearly everything relating to the matter… it’s as if you wanted the entire world to know just how in love you were with it. The more you talked and poured your heart out, the more intoxicated I’d become as well, happily drinking up each and every thought, never missing a single drop.
One day, I woke up, and realized that the thoughts that had spilled out brought something together with them. Though I was no longer intoxicated, the rush I felt had remained. It wasn’t long before they brought colors into my world, colors I had never seen before. I didn’t want to fade them out just yet. I assumed that it was only out of curiosity that I had allowed them to prolong their stay, wanting to know what would happen next. As they lingered for a while, they soon grew into a cozy color palette. I didn’t mind it at first, until I recognized the familiarity of the warm splash of colors. Only then did it proceed to develop—from a color palette I never wanted to leave my line of vision, to a song I never wanted to stop playing in my mind.
In a moment of striking clarity, I finally understood that it was you. It always has been.
Yet, I never did tell you that, did I? I wonder if this might be the letter that would finally be able to get to you, its recipient. I’m only picturing how you’d react and my heart lurches at the thought. Frankly, I can never get enough of your reactions and the faces you pull. I really can never get enough of you.
Delving into college together, people were naturally drawn to you. Being the one by your side almost 24/7, I could see why. You’re easily lovable, you know? You’re someone whose happiness has been of utmost importance to me ever since I’ve met you. Don’t get me wrong, though—it’s not because of you that I’ve developed such a practice. Growing up, I’ve always been taught by my parents of this policy in being selfless and to think of others first, which shaped my mind and dictated my actions. I carried that policy with me as I matured and grew older. But then, when I’d look at your laughing figure from afar—just a few moments before you’d usually join me after classes—I realized that some part of me wanted to defy everything I’ve been taught from the very beginning. Sometimes, I wanted to be greedy, too. It was an unfamiliar feeling that settled in every once in a while. I wondered how long it had been there, but looking back on it, perhaps it’s from the time you had gotten induced with your first alcohol that knocked your lightweight self out. A flushed face trying to stay awake had looked at me then, and before I knew it, my own hand suddenly had a mind of its own, reaching for your own skinny one—but only barely. Luckily, I had halted, but still granted myself the privilege of staring at your then-sleeping figure to wait for you to sober up, all the while thinking, I wonder what it would be like to have my hand in yours. Perhaps, one day, I would gain the proper, non-alcoholic courage to find out the answer for myself.
Soon enough, I finally became determined and started actively planning how I’d tell you. The first time around, I carefully orchestrated everything out; it almost felt like we were back in high school and I was planning a promposal to you because of how cautious I had become. Just when I thought I had everything perfectly laid out, someone had asked you out instead. I spent all that time planning when I probably could have said it then, no? When you told me all about it the next day, though, your face was fuming with anger every time you’d mention the guy who was apparently living too comfortably in his own bubble. Although I felt sorry for you who had to spend the evening with him, I still couldn’t help but laugh at how you would narrate and spout off the rest of the tale. I think it wasn’t very long after that when courage came knocking at my door once more, making me plan over and over again to make sure it wouldn’t be interrupted, to make sure that it would finally be the right timing. There were far too many moments, though, when my eyes would gaze over you as you’d paint, focused on the canvas—and the words would almost spill out my lips. It was really difficult to seal them when you looked like a masterpiece yourself, you know.
As much as I hated it, the cycle of courage and hesitation, as well as having the right timing continued to meddle with me. Acting on it meant getting the wrong timing, yet leaving it up to fate was no good either. But… there were moments where I felt like you somehow already knew. When the words were threatening to spill out, I felt like you already sensed their presence. But me being me, I just didn’t want to assume anything, and so, that resulted in a love from a distance.
Loving you from afar was enough. It was more than enough. I thought to myself then that, I may never know what it would be like to hold your hand, but perhaps it’s better this way. Masterpieces, after all, shouldn’t have to be at risk of getting ruined. Even in the slightest. I suppose that’s why I didn’t think of telling you then. Not only were you a masterpiece, but the bond we’ve created together was also a masterpiece of its own. It might be why I never sent you these letters in the first place, fearing that something we’ve both crafted in the past years together would just get destroyed too easily. It was something I never quite prepared myself for; something I didn’t want to ever prepare for, either.
And yet, as I look at your sleeping figure beside me tonight, all I can think of is that I don’t think anything would have ever prepared me for this at all.
I’ve realized I was wrong about one thing, though. Tonight, I feel more delighted than ever that a bold stroke was marked on our canvas. Making a mess on a masterpiece doesn’t make it any less of a masterpiece. I learned that from being with you. It’s the happy little accidents that make it a masterpiece, you’d say. Truthfully, I still can’t believe that I get to share the rest of my life with you, and it’s making me think that maybe in my previous life, I might have done something really good for the gods to bless me with the chance of finally, finally knowing of what it’s like to have my hand in yours.
To the girl I’ll love for the rest of my life, thank you for choosing to be with me. I can’t wait to see you walk down the aisle.
See you tomorrow, mahal. :)
Literary: To the Girl I Once Loved
To the girl I once loved,
You’re finally getting married tomorrow. How are you feeling?
I know it’s a bit sudden for me to be like this, writing to you at an ungodly hour. I’ve been thinking more and more these days about you. About us. To tell you the truth, they haven’t exactly been the most coherent of thoughts—well, I guess, except for one. I’ve been thinking that it’s time I let you in on a secret: I’ve always been writing to you unsent. Somehow, it’s one of the many things that calm down my easily-shaken-up heart, especially when I’m in dire need of comfort and some sort of outlet. I know, I know—you always tell me that I can share anything with you, because we’re best friends, and that I can trust you with anything. Don’t worry, I do.
Knowing you, you’re probably wondering by now how long I’ve been doing this for. Would you believe me if I told you that I’ve been doing this since we were kids? Still brace-faced, our cheeks flushed red from the glaring heat of the sun or from puberty that brought acne along with it; our minds still so youthful and our hearts filled with so much innocence and hope. It makes me chuckle now, remembering the goals and dreams we set for ourselves at such a young age.
As I look back on the day we earnestly talked about the paths we wanted to take for the first time, two high school students fill my vision. They’re in a home that speaks much of its history; its interior a warm color palette, filled with photos of family outings and friends, with paintings hung up almost everywhere, each one evidently done by a different person. It’s us in the comfort of your own home.
Born into a family of artists, it was no surprise that you wanted to follow in their tracks of craft as well. I wondered then if it was just the pressure that had driven you to pursue that path, but luckily, I caught the ghost of a smile lingering on your lips as you spoke, ridding me of those qualms. Then, you asked me something about art. I remember saying that I only knew a few famous artists, and when I got to mentioning Monet, you interrupted me with a light chuckle and said that you saw yourself in his work. You reasoned that it was because his pieces, or any impressionist painting for that matter, despite looking good from afar, once you get up close and personal—they only turn out to be this big, incomprehensible mess. Honestly, I wish I told you then that a mess isn’t such a bad thing to be.
There was stillness for a second, before a question broke the silence. You carried on, and asked if I thought you could amount to your brothers, your parents, your ancestors; if I thought you were even remotely on par with them. I didn’t miss the way your voice faltered at that, but I also didn’t miss a beat in saying yes to you. Just that question made me hark back to a short memory lane. Your illustrations, your artistry, and the way you used various, beautiful techniques were already top-notch, but how your face would light up every time you’d ramble on about art was nearly unparalleled; talking about its history, the theories encompassed in it and nearly everything relating to the matter… it’s as if you wanted the entire world to know just how in love you were with it. The more you talked and poured your heart out, the more intoxicated I’d become as well, happily drinking up each and every thought, never missing a single drop.
One day, I woke up, and realized that the thoughts that had spilled out brought something together with them. Though I was no longer intoxicated, the rush I felt had remained. It wasn’t long before they brought colors into my world, colors I had never seen before. I didn’t want to fade them out just yet. I assumed that it was only out of curiosity that I had allowed them to prolong their stay, wanting to know what would happen next. As they lingered for a while, they soon grew into a cozy color palette. I didn’t mind it at first, until I recognized the familiarity of the warm splash of colors. Only then did it proceed to develop—from a color palette I never wanted to leave my line of vision, to a song I never wanted to stop playing in my mind.
In a moment of striking clarity, I finally understood that it was you. It always has been.
Yet, I never did tell you that, did I? I wonder if this might be the letter that would finally be able to get to you, its recipient. I’m only picturing how you’d react and my heart lurches at the thought. Frankly, I can never get enough of your reactions and the faces you pull. I really can never get enough of you.
Delving into college together, people were naturally drawn to you. Being the one by your side almost 24/7, I could see why. You’re easily lovable, you know? You’re someone whose happiness has been of utmost importance to me ever since I’ve met you. Don’t get me wrong, though—it’s not because of you that I’ve developed such a practice. Growing up, I’ve always been taught by my parents of this policy in being selfless and to think of others first, which shaped my mind and dictated my actions. I carried that policy with me as I matured and grew older. But then, when I’d look at your laughing figure from afar—just a few moments before you’d usually join me after classes—I realized that some part of me wanted to defy everything I’ve been taught from the very beginning. Sometimes, I wanted to be greedy, too. It was an unfamiliar feeling that settled in every once in a while. I wondered how long it had been there, but looking back on it, perhaps it’s from the time you had gotten induced with your first alcohol that knocked your lightweight self out. A flushed face trying to stay awake had looked at me then, and before I knew it, my own hand suddenly had a mind of its own, reaching for your own skinny one—but only barely. Luckily, I had halted, but still granted myself the privilege of staring at your then-sleeping figure to wait for you to sober up, all the while thinking, I wonder what it would be like to have my hand in yours. Perhaps, one day, I would gain the proper, non-alcoholic courage to find out the answer for myself.
Soon enough, I finally became determined and started actively planning how I’d tell you. The first time around, I carefully orchestrated everything out; it almost felt like we were back in high school and I was planning a promposal to you because of how cautious I had become. Just when I thought I had everything perfectly laid out, someone had asked you out instead. I spent all that time planning when I probably could have said it then, no? When you told me all about it the next day, though, your face was fuming with anger every time you’d mention the guy who was apparently living too comfortably in his own bubble. Although I felt sorry for you who had to spend the evening with him, I still couldn’t help but laugh at how you would narrate and spout off the rest of the tale. I think it wasn’t very long after that when courage came knocking at my door once more, making me plan over and over again to make sure it wouldn’t be interrupted, to make sure that it would finally be the right timing. There were far too many moments, though, when my eyes would gaze over you as you’d paint, focused on the canvas—and the words would almost spill out my lips. It was really difficult to seal them when you looked like a masterpiece yourself, you know.
As much as I hated it, the cycle of courage and hesitation, as well as having the right timing continued to meddle with me. Acting on it meant getting the wrong timing, yet leaving it up to fate was no good either. But… there were moments where I felt like you somehow already knew. When the words were threatening to spill out, I felt like you already sensed their presence. But me being me, I just didn’t want to assume anything, and so, that resulted in a love from a distance.
Loving you from afar was enough. It was more than enough. I thought to myself then that, I may never know what it would be like to hold your hand, but perhaps it’s better this way. Masterpieces, after all, shouldn’t have to be at risk of getting ruined. Even in the slightest. I suppose that’s why I didn’t think of telling you then. Not only were you a masterpiece, but the bond we’ve created together was also a masterpiece of its own. It might be why I never sent you these letters in the first place, fearing that something we’ve both crafted in the past years together would just get destroyed too easily. It was something I never quite prepared myself for; something I didn’t want to ever prepare for, either.
And yet, as I look at your sleeping figure beside me tonight, all I can think of is that I don’t think anything would have ever prepared me for this at all.
I’ve realized I was wrong about one thing, though. Tonight, I feel more delighted than ever that a bold stroke was marked on our canvas. Making a mess on a masterpiece doesn’t make it any less of a masterpiece. I learned that from being with you. It’s the happy little accidents that make it a masterpiece, you’d say. Truthfully, I still can’t believe that I get to share the rest of my life with you, and it’s making me think that maybe in my previous life, I might have done something really good for the gods to bless me with the chance of finally, finally knowing of what it’s like to have my hand in yours.
To the girl I’ll love for the rest of my life, thank you for choosing to be with me. I can’t wait to see you walk down the aisle.
See you tomorrow, mahal. :)
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