Back when I was seventeen, there was this girl that became so close to me in a manner I would like to describe as phenomenal, for indeed it took me a whole semester before I really began talking with her. Second semester started then on November 3, and l was keen on improving my grades so that my academic standing will be better. But my whole path to academic greatness took a large digression when this girl suddenly took most of my time, as by mid-November we were talking a lot on things that concerned almost everything about her. My free times were always preoccupied by our conversations that somehow I forgot to talk to my other friends, particularly to one of my best girl friends in the block. I did not know why, but there was something about her that just made me stay and talk with her, though most of the time, spending time with her entailed me to break my schedule. The weird friendship (I would rather use acquaintanceship in this part, oh well) we had started through her asking me things concerning her interpersonal potentials towards, well, boys. She inquired what was lacking in her (Ano ba ang kulang sa akin?), what she did not have (Ano ba ang wala sa akin?), if she looked like a boy (Mukha ba akong lalaki?), if she was born a gay in her other life (Ipinanganak ba akong bakla noon?), and of course, what must she do in order to improve her “attractiveness” (Ano ba ang dapat kong gawin?). In those days I had almost all the answers to all her inquiries, to the extent that at times I thought I was just serving her ego through my replies and explanations, although in reality I could not find the words to compose a direct, clear-cut answer to each of her questions. There came a time when I said something to her rather vaguely, still under the topic of interpersonal potentials towards boys, that she sent me a text message saying: Gino ur so weird, without explaining the point of such a message that night (it was sent on December 11, 2004, at around 8 or so in the evening), or even the next day. Admittedly, at times, I was weird, but the matter of me answering the questions that concerned her was all the more bizarre. Nevertheless, I enjoyed her company very much that I chose to stay very close to her. It was funny that we shared two peculiar things in common: love for McDonald’s Big Mac Meal (that we always upgraded to large drinks and fries), and addiction to that film depicting a bizarre love story, My Sassy Girl. The first time I tried eating McDonald’s Big Mac meal was way back in fourth year high school, under my self-imposed whim that I should try it before I finish secondary school. I would not worry the reader as to the details of my first real taste of the Big Mac, nor to the succeeding ones. But what I would like to tell is that, back then, every time I ate that particular meal, it felt like eating candy when you are diagnosed with diabetes (Type I of Type II I just do not care), for to me, it was a guilty pleasure, for after eating I would see my finances crashing, in some sense. But with her the whole ordeal became more exciting, if not blissful, that it came to a point that whenever I ate the meal with some friends without her, I always remembered her, and wanted badly for her to be with me. The first time my roommate introduced the film My Sassy Girl to me, I was quite indifferent, for I was never excited about films anyway. But when I was able to watch it, I became so addicted to it that in a span of two months or so I was able to watch it around six or seven times (I wanted then to see it ten times). Incidentally, she also liked the film, and that made everything much more exciting. In no time, I tagged her as my sassy girl, for she really was one. When March came she asked me to write a short story for her birthday on July. At first I was startled by the idea, and I started to ask why. She stated it rather clearly: Ikaw ang una kong kaibigang makata, kaya gusto ko na igawa mo ako ng short story. But the major problem was: I had no idea what to write about, all the more how to write it. So summer came and still I had no idea of what to write, although in those times we were so close that she supplied me with updates everyday about her life, as if I had paid a subscription for her journals. Indeed several images fit to be included in a short story such as this overflowed, but the force would not suffice to make me organize them into one, concrete work. I never thought that this girl would be someone who will share her thoughts to me. I enjoyed each conversation, anyway, especially when she says that she “exists” whenever her crush (or crushes) would greet her. However, something unexplainable was coming up inside me; so unexplainable in fact that I tried as much as possible not to mention it. Through the whole summer she was asking me to write the story, but I could not find my rhythm at that time. To make matters worse, I became busy come second year, that I ultimately forgot to write the story she wanted me to give her at her birthday. As a consolation, I attended her party, although I declined her invitation a number of times, stating reasons such as I need to study or I am too lazy to attend a party. There I explained why I was not able to write it, saying that I had no idea what to write about, all the more how to write it. I did not know if she accepted what I said, but we continued to enjoy the party anyway. I felt really bad that night that I started to drink a lot, although I was still thinking the true reason as to why I was not able to write what she wanted me to write. While drinking I tried to rationalize everything, and in those times it was rather easy, for indeed there was time and space for me to hide, and after all, the whole thing, as I thought then, was not that important. She was strikingly beautiful, with her white skin sophisticatedly playing with the bright lights of the cafe. Her hair was done perfectly, with some gold highlights. Her cheeks blushed quickly, and I just loved how they turned red with every glass of wine she drank. Her face had some oval to heart-shape outline, and although I could not judge accurately the way she smiled, for the alcohol then started to settle in my blood going to my veins, the faint picture I had of it was wonderful, as if suddenly angels came and proclaimed to me a good news. Her figure was just stunningly great, with her hips and waist formed as if a corsage had done it (she always wanted me to tell her if she was getting fat). The dress she wore was a perfect fit for her, as it had two slits on each side, thereby exposing her white and smooth-as-silk legs (at one time she wanted me to touch them, to get a feel of them, but I declined). Her feet were, although having a size quite big for an ordinary woman (and that was one of the jokes the block would throw at her) was white as though it had never been exposed to the darkening rays of the sun. I tried my best to survive the night, knowing that things would never be the same again after I had failed her expectations. But, again, I rationalized by saying that if ever I was able to write the story, things would never be the same, anyway. To me then, it was a no-win situation, and I had rather disappoint her than betray myself. Indeed, things were never the same, as I tried to avoid talking with her as much as possible, and it was possible that she also tried doing the same, although friends said that it was just me doing the damage. In those times I was rather vague in giving reasons as to why I was going away from her, which was a far cry from the earlier days. I had my explanations, but all of them combined would not connect with the true explanation. And she would never know, for come third year she was gone for good. She and her family moved to Canada. I was nineteen when I felt the pain of her loss, and indeed, I was lonelier when she was gone than when I had my first break-up with my, of course, first girlfriend. It was really peculiar, but the first year of her disappearance became an official year of mourning for me. It became a mortal sin for my friends to invite me for lunch at McDonald’s, and for a while I tried my best to forget the details of My Sassy Girl. No one knew it—and I had no plans then to let them know—that every night I cried whenever I read in my inbox her birthday greeting for me, knowing that it would never be followed by another greeting. I did my best to be really busy so that I may forget her completely and be submerged in the weight of my work. I spent the bulk of my time in reading, and tried as much as possible to stop writing, that it came to a point that, to some extent, I totally lost all the ability I had in writing a literary piece, much like what happened to my drawing skills, which was lost through lack of practice. But writing was a part of me, and unlearning a subject I know was harder than when I was learning it. I hoped that sometime soon she would pay a visit, and maybe we could talk and try to rebuild what was left for us. Unfortunately, it did not come, until time passed so quickly I just found myself working at the English faculty of the school I graduated in, and building a collection of short stories with plots and points I was not fully interested anyway.
Several years passed, and at twenty-eight, being a part-time English teacher and a freelance writer to several publications, with some literary awards to boot, things became clearer and simpler, that I wish time would just turn back at the period when I was seventeen with the disposition I have now. Indeed it was all simple: I was in love with her, and I just could not find the words to express it, all the more the strength to betray myself and tell her all the truth. I was afraid then to lose her if she knew how I felt for her, that I tried hard to snap myself off from her chains, that I may not fall for her more deeply, crazily. But I lost, for it was really hard to unlearn to love her than when I was learning to love her. I love her, but I know her well enough to know that she can never love me. Now that I am, to some extent, an accomplished writer of fiction, especially short stories, I am thinking of writing again the story I could have written and she could have read, if only I had been that honest to myself. I began to unearth some of my rough drafts that were now ten years old to write the new story. I was pretty surprised that all the while I just lied to myself and to her then, for apparently I recovered four rough drafts of the short story, each having its unique introductory and closing passage, all having the same major points though. The first began with something like this: Falling in love with her; not a choice, never an option, its fate, and ended with I wished I had said all of these to her while there was time. The second started with It all started as a piece of advice from my English teacher, for us to write in our journal the important things, people, and events of our life and ended with I was just surprised to see her name in my journal. The third draft started with the conventional Once there was a boy falling in love with his close girl friend, and ended somewhat with I know it was a sad story from the start, thank you. The fourth was an evident lack of creativity and thinking, for the piece was very close to one of Murakami’s short stories (one of our favorite writers); it began with One beautiful morning of (place month here, quite surprising I did not place the month) I saw the most beautiful girl in the world, and ended with Yes, that was what I must have said, really. For the last three years I abandoned the idea of ever writing the short story for her, but now that I saw all the drafts of ten years ago, I became interested in trying for a fifth draft, hopefully the last, and hopefully the one she can finally read, if my prayers would be answered in time. The fifth draft would start, like the third (with some revisions, however), with Once there was a seventeen-year old boy falling in love with his close girl friend, and end somewhat with I know it is a sad story, there is no need for some affirmation.
Once there was a seventeen-year old boy falling in love with his close girl friend, although, of course, he could not tell what he felt for her. It all started around the second semester of their first year in college, when they started to talk about a lot of things by mid-November. The boy then had several plans, including a grand academic plan of improving his semestral grades by focusing and concentrating all his resources in studying. However, he never realized his plan, as the girl had the ability to hook him to her, and with that his whole path to academic greatness took a large digression, as almost all his free times were filled with their conversations. Somehow he forgot to talk to his other friends, particularly to one of his best girl friends in the block. He did not know why, but there was something about her that just made him stay and talk with her, though most of the time, spending time with her entailed him to break his schedule (which was the last thing he wanted). The friendship they had started through her asking him things concerning her interpersonal potentials towards boys. She inquired what was lacking in her, what she did not have, if she looked like a boy, if she was born a gay in her other life, and of course, what must she do in order to improve her “attractiveness.” He had almost all the answers to all her inquiries, to the extent that at times he thought he was just serving her ego through his replies and explanations, although in reality he could not find the words to compose a direct, clear-cut answer to each of her questions. There came a time when he said something to her rather vaguely, still under the topic of interpersonal potentials towards boys, that she sent him a text message saying that he was kind of weird, without explaining the point of such a message that night, or even the next day. But in reality, for the boy she was indeed complete—if not that perfect. The true reason behind him not finding the words to compose a direct, clear-cut answer was that there was none to begin with, for to him she was the best there is. To him she did not have to improve her attractiveness, for there was something in her that was completely attractive; she was only unaware of it. He enjoyed her company very much that he chose to stay very close to her. They shared two peculiar things in common: love for McDonald’s Big Mac Meal, and addiction to that film depicting a bizarre love story, My Sassy Girl. Every time the boy ate a Big Mac Meal, it felt like eating candy when one is diagnosed with diabetes, for to him, it was a guilty pleasure, for after eating he would see his finances crashing, in some sense. But with her the whole ordeal became more exciting—if not blissful, that it came to a point that whenever he ate the meal with some friends without her, he always remembered her, and wanted badly for her to be with him. The first time his roommate introduced the film My Sassy Girl to him, he was kind of indifferent, for he was never excited about films. But when he watched it, he became so addicted to it that he was able to watch it around six or seven times. Incidentally, she also liked the film, and that made everything much more exciting. In no time, he tagged her as his sassy girl, for she really was one. And they imitated the film in almost all of its entirety, from the brutal patting and punching of the girl to the boy, to the specific scene of the two protagonists of the film playing a betting game inside a train (their version was done in one franchise of McDonald’s, and, just like in the film, the boy lost). When March came she asked him to write a short story for her birthday on July. At first he was startled by the idea, and started to ask why. She stated it rather clearly: Ikaw ang una kong kaibigang makata, kaya gusto ko na igawa mo ako ng short story. The major problem was: he had no idea what to write about, all the more how to write it. But in reality, it was only a cover, for the boy could write even if the topic was not his, or even if the topic was so disgusting writing it would prove to be one heck of a waste. The true major problem was that he was beginning to fall in love with the girl, and one could not think clearly when he is in love. He was afraid that his work would betray his feelings, and all the friendship with her would go down the drain when finally she discovers his feelings. So summer came and still he said he had no idea of what to write, although in reality the first draft was already finished by April. In those times they were so close that she supplied him with updates everyday about her life, as if he had paid a subscription for her journals. He never thought that this girl would be someone who will share her thoughts to him, and he enjoyed each conversation, especially when she says that she “exists” whenever her crush would greet her. A second draft was then finished by middle of April with a line there that goes She had always existed to me, although she only acknowledged her existence whenever her prospects would greet her or talk with her. Still, it would betray his feelings, which he tried hard to keep hidden, although several times they were together, eating Big Mac and talking about a lot of things. Through the whole summer she was asking him to write the story, but he just said that he could not find his rhythm at that time. By May the boy completed a third draft, although still it would betray him, for the details really did happen, and the short story would no longer be one. In the third draft there was a line saying, The boy would always be her friend, although the boy is tired of being one. And so he got her into believing that the story is not yet written, and that time was running out. To make matters worse, he became busy come second year, that he ultimately forgot to write the story she wanted him to give her at her birthday. As a consolation, he attended her party, although he declined her invitation a number of times, stating reasons such as I need to study or I am too lazy to attend a party. There he explained why he was not able to write it, saying I had no idea what to write about, all the more how to write it. The truth was, he had brought that night the fourth draft, which was very parallel to one of Murakami’s short story—one of the favorites of the girl. But indeed he did not find the strength to give it to her, for the same reasons. That night he just enjoyed the party and drank a lot, although he cannot take his eyes from the girl, who was perfect that night. She was strikingly beautiful, with her white skin sophisticatedly playing with the bright lights of the café. Her hair was done perfectly, with some gold highlights. Her cheeks blushed quickly, and he just loved how they turned red with every glass of wine she drank. Her face had some heart-shape outline, and the way she smiled was wonderful. Her figure was just stunningly great, with her waist and hips formed as if a corsage had done it. The dress she wore was a perfect fit for her, as it had two slits on each side, thereby exposing her white and smooth-as-silk legs. Her feet were, although having a size quite big for an ordinary woman was white as though it had never been exposed to the darkening rays of the sun. He tried his best to survive the night, knowing that things would never be the same again after he had failed her expectations. The truth, however, was that he was more disappointed of himself, knowing that sooner or later he must say what he really felt, although courage had fled away from him. Even alcohol creeping into his blood would not provide him the audacity to finally say what he wanted to say, until the night was over. He rationalized by saying that if ever I was able to write the story, things would never be the same, anyway. For him then, it was a no-win situation, and he had rather disappoint her than betray his self. But the truth is that he badly needed the story as a means to express what he truly felt for her, and that he did not care if things would never be the same again, as long as the girl finally gains the knowledge the he loves her. In fact it was a no-win situation for him, but he had rather betray himself than to disappoint the girl of his dreams. After that night, things were never the same for both of them, as both of them tried to ignore each other, with the boy having the greater intensity. However, the girl wanted them to talk and for the boy to explain a lot of things, for she wanted the old system back. In one text message she said: Ano b yan bkt b kc nagkagnto? Ang sayang. Wla lng. But the boy continued what he had already set to do, and he ignored all the opportunities for them to talk about the matters concerning them. He was vague in giving reasons as to why he was going away from her, which was a far cry from the earlier days. He had his explanations, but all of them combined would not connect with the true explanation. For the true explanation was utterly simple: He was in love with her, and he just could not find the words to express it, all the more the strength to betray his self and tell her all the truth. He was afraid then to lose her if she knew how he felt for her, that he tried hard to snap his self off from her chains, that he may not fall for her more deeply, crazily, madly. But he lost, for it was really hard to unlearn to love her than when he was learning to love her, but he continued in the struggle, anyway. He ran and continued to run until no one is chasing him, for the girl and her family moved to Canada, or some place he did not know, for good, come his third year in college. The first year of her disappearance became an official year of mourning for him. It became a mortal sin for his friends to invite him for lunch at McDonald’s, and for a while he tried his best to forget the details of My Sassy Girl. No one knew it, but every night he cried because of the fact that he was not able to talk to his friend when he had the opportunity, and now that she is gone, the opportunity will never come, or there will only be a slim chance of doing so. He did his best to be really busy so that he may forget her completely and be submerged in the burden of his work. He spent the bulk of his time in reading, and tried as much as possible to stop writing, in the hope that he will totally lose all the ability he had in writing a literary piece, much like what happened to his drawing skills, which was lost through lack of practice. But writing was a part of him, and unlearning a subject he knows was harder than when he was learning it. And indeed, no matter how he tried, he could never unlearn loving her, no matter how many details of My Sassy Girl he had already forgotten and how many Big Mac Meals he did not eat. Much like memorizing a cell phone number; once memorized, it is hard to forget. That is why after several years of abandoning the whole project, he set out to write again the fifth, and hopefully the final draft of the short story. However, he was not sure if the girl to whom the story is for would be able to read it. And this is the final draft. I know it is a sad story, there is no need for some affirmation.
