2:30 PM

Anonymous said: Tell me a story, darling.

She looks at him as though he is her whole world.

Every day, the ocean-eyed lass chooses the second row seat nearest to the window just to get a glimpse of his rusty, brown hair every time he walks by at exactly 2:30 pm. While the wall clock’s hands have not grasped the time she is waiting for, she pretends to listen to her ancient English teacher whose voice came from the renaissance. She scribbles notes about Shakespeare, and doodles roses while her mind is far away from the lectures about E.E Cummings’ poems. She simply exists as the class wallflower, aware but not participating.

However, when the boy with the rusty, brown hair struts away dutifully during 2:30 pm, she blooms like the sun. Her back straightens, her eyes sparkles with focus, and her mind wakes up from the fairytale illusions she sleeps with. Her neck would turn at 45 degrees to the right, and suddenly, quite suddenly, the world is such a lovely place to live in. 

--

Note: Published this short story two years ago on my tumblr blog. 

Word Vomit: Two weeks.

Sitting here inside the warm coffee shop with Yiruma playing his keys to my ear, I realized that this moment would have been perfect - would transcend the large block of almost - if you were here.

You, who brought out irrational words from my controlled temper. You, who would simply stare at the windows as your mind wanders off and goes to journeys only you will know. You, who looked at me like I am some kind of beautiful anomaly that randomly walked into the scenery. Not that I am saying I am beautiful but you make me feel that I am. You, who made me stirred from my dreamless slumber. You, who I cannot categorize.

I am not a writer of candied pieces. I tackle tragedy, despair, yearning and unrequitedness of things because they were the ones I am familiar with. But you - the mere presence of you - whisper sweet nothings to my addled mind.

Autumn is coming. I hope you stay, if only for a while.

Word Vomit: Railway

I hope this won't make you uncomfortable. To the tell you truth, I am reluctant to write this but I can't let this chance slip away.

You told me our timing was off. We ignored the signs and took the wrong routes that when we met again, we were still on the same train only with the unnecessary baggage. Instead of walking away, I carried your bags as you carried mine. We shared what was inside of every pocket and laughed and cried with each secret uncovered. We started drinking coffee and spending the hours talking and talking and talking...and talking and we became a habit. We became a fixture I look forward to every time I wake up.

However, every ride has its end. You and I had places to go. We each have responsibilities. When the train stopped at my station, you  took my baggage away and told me to go and forget you. You made me promise to erase you because you were once one of those boys that left the unwanted souvenirs upon my door. You told me that the universe wasn't ready. You told me that our timing was off.

But I can't forget you. When everyday does not preoccupy my time, I think of you and the things I wish I expressed. What if, by continuing to pretend that nothing happened, we are on the wrong road again? What if the timing was, in fact, right? What if my final destination is really you? I don't want to live in the what-ifs anymore. Please, if you are still even just a fraction of the man I know, come to your train station. I'm here. Meet me for the third time.

Questions.

I knew from the very start that you will not, in any way, care about me more than I care about you.

But is it too thick-skinned and desperate of me to hope against the blatant fact that you will never see me in that light? Because I am clinging to those small, powerful moments where you actually took the initiative to talk to me, or to look at my way. Or did you? Were they simply illusions my mind created to cushion the impending heartbreak I am going to experience? Did I raise the levels at such high rates only for me to fall down and get broken?

Will you attempt to catch me? (Quite frankly, I don't think so.)

For my sun.

I don't think it's working anymore. 

I don't have the time, the place or any of those for you. I cannot offer myself to you, because I will never be enough and I don't think I will ever be for you. You're a star that is meant to be seen by afar, not to be touched or even to be kept. And I?  Who am I? I'm a satellite. I wander around the universe looking for that perfect planet to spy on but I keep on gravitating towards you, a burning mass of light. You are no good for me, and I for you. If I so much attempt to touch your rays, I shall cease to exist.

Or maybe, I just don't have the courage to be burned by you.