A secret. Once again.

I am in love. For perhaps the second time in my life.

I guess you could say it's a complicatedly beautiful mess. The woman I love just came away from an almost-four-year-relationship. But I have been in love with her even before her break-up. We were close.. oh, this sounds familiar, right? Yes, she was the one I was describing >here<.

Anyway, we became much, much closer afterwards; but at the same time, something seems to have changed. We had thoughts and things we left unspoken (at least that's how I see it), maybe that caused this distance between us. We never opened this up to each other (I tried to, but she said I was just over-analyzing); nevertheless, it's there: sometimes it felt too uncomfortable to be with and speak with each other. I really have no idea when this started, but there's one thing I am sure about: I never changed how tenderly I have treated her; I have always been caring for her - but now it looks like she's finding it.. unneeded, insignificant - I don't know, maybe it's just my rough gut.

Even so, there are still times that I feel like everything is worth it, that I should treasure this, that I should hold on to dearest feelings - frankly, she truly makes me happy. And I mean, happy. I don't know how she does it - offhand gestures, lingering glances, singsong voice - and that warm, warm smile - always. She heartens me to be a better man and I thank her for that. She supports me, in ways that I need to be supported roundabout - she handles me with earnest encouragement and often asks me to take good, careful care of myself. She gives me the time of day - even though I believe I really am not someone you should bother to give your time of day to. She lets me feel that she cares, that she understands; at least that's how I feel of it.

I haven't told her how I really feel about her - I guess you could consider it the cause for all those distance - but the reason behind that choice of mine isn't cowardice. I am not afraid of the consequences; if this was a normal, everyday situation, I would've told her right away. But she just came from a break-up. I don't want her to hear my I-love-you-so-much nonsense right now. She needs her time, to return to the goodness of life. It's not that I don't want to tell her because I expect something back when I do tell her, it's because I do not want to complicate her thoughts of what to do with my feelings if ever she knew. When the right time comes, I'll tell her how I feel. But just so she knows - no grand expectations on my part. Well, maybe a little (who wouldn't want a piece of happiness, right?) - but that's it.

But if it would feel like she's giving me a chance to prove myself, I'll gladly do whatever I can so as not to lose her. I'll be sure to make her feel like she's the most fortunate woman of her time. I'm still a man, aren't I. Though, that's still on the far future - and there's the possibility that that 'chance' might never come as well -, so..

To tell the truth, all I want for her is her happiness and nothing more. Yes, I love her - perhaps more than anything in the world and any woman in my life (family excluded) - and nothing could probably make me happier than to have her reciprocate, to give love in return; but more than that, I'd be the most I'm-fulfilled man alive if she'd be the happiest woman on earth - even if I would not be the reason behind and would not be a part of that happiness. That's all that matters. I just want her to be happy.

Of course, seeing her with another man could make me feel overwhelming, unbearable pain - I am a living breathing capable-of-feeling thing, after all - but if it could make her happy, then I'm fine with that. Because, in spite of everything, it's what I truly want for her.

Notes.

I've always believed that a person can be more honest when he or she is writing. Perhaps it's because that has always been my case - to tell the truth, I stammer a lot and often say spur-of-the-moment words when I use my mouth. Laying it out on paper or typing it away makes me think deeper and consider every piece of what I am trying to say: feelings, thoughts, emotions. I can be more honest - I don't know what enchantments written words carry but they can surely make me spill my sentiments out more than my voice. Sometimes I genuinely wonder if writing had become my voice; if only my words could talk.

People have written notes for me. And at times, when I want to remember how a certain person has affected my being, I'd go find something that that person penned for me. I keep them as tangible treasures; to tell a story. They are memories in earthly form. Some letters bear pain - but for me, they serve as reminders of who I was and what I have learned, and nothing more. Other letters bring back so much happy memories and it makes me smile whenever I chance upon them.

And then, I'd clasp their thoughts in my hands - it's funny and wonderful at the same time, how you could literally hold someone's emotions with your fingertips.

Two days ago, I cried. Once again. After a long time.

I will not invent a story behind the tears. But I have to admit, it's not about some sappy romantic heartbreaking tale. Nor is it about someone dying. The waterworks didn't involve financial inadequacy, missing people badly and tears of joy.

My mother made me cry. Again.

Another superficial reason was the cause - involving computers - and yet she didn't fail to break my soul, once more, just like the old days, when she used to destroy my self-worth as often as possible. For disciplinary purposes, she always used to say. I cried - no, I wept - my lungs out, harder and more dramatic than what your imagination can provide you. Can you imagine some five-feet eight-inches man shedding liquid from his eyes because of his mother telling him out? It's possible.

After all this time, self-pity might be the only trigger for my tears. But what can I do? I didn't grow up learning to cry on grief, or loneliness, or happiness, or pain, or rejection, or sadness. My eyes were wired only to sob its ducts away when I feel like the most wretched being in the world. My mother made me this way, maybe that's how she shows her love. I don't know if I should blame her and I don't know if everybody is like this, because when you experience being broken emotionally almost everyday when you were a child, you can never tell if it's normal or not. Because in your case, it is.

Someone. Anybody. Please teach me how to cry properly.

I hastened towards her bookshop. All the while thinking how to break the ice.

Upon entering the place, the first thing I did was wipe the sweat off my brow. My eyes then started darting around the room: I saw her, nonchalantly browsing a section with Erich Segal novels. I tiptoed across the cascade of literary works and silently crept up beside her. And, dear God, she looked simply beautiful that cozy, warm afternoon.

Since I didn't know how to begin, I impulsively, jointly agreed with her to start with a movie. We split up the cost (which, eventually, is what we'd be doing for the day's expenses) and selected some seats on Row H. Even if I tried, I cannot recall the full details of that flick; because what bothered me the most was that for the duration of the picture, she was shivering from the cold and I couldn't do anything about it. Dammit. I should have brought a blanket with me.

Anyway, after going out of the cinema complex, she offered me some mint and then pointed us to what seemed like a fountain where you can sit around its circle barrier.

And, we talked.

We sat there for God-knows-how-long - yet I haven't had a dull moment with her. It wasn't the most usual thing to do when you're out with someone; normally you'd be treating her to an ice cream or buying her clothes or carrying her shopping bags. We didn't do that. We just parked ourselves on that pile of tiles and exchanged thoughts.

Around seven plus in the evening, we searched for a place to eat. It was subsequently decided that I'd decide where we would have dinner. After passing through some restaurants with odd names (Is Bigbuddha a Chinese food chain?), we unanimously ended up on the Filipino cuisine-serving Sentro (with the trigger of the place preparing a dish called Sinigang na Corned Beef - sounds so exotic and different, right?).

We were seated face-to-face - and it was then that I fully appreciated just how lovely she blended with the splendor of the night. On our table was that a-bit-too-salty (according to her) sinigang and tasty chicken (we weren't big-eaters). No carbonated drinks for us. Our talks turned to a more quiet, hearty conversation. She laughed and smiled and drank mango juice - it was so delightful. It was also the first time I tasted brown rice ("Wait, is it sweet, like brown sugar?").

With our stomach filled (and our bill settled), we went outside and again sat on that fountain's barrier. And talked some more. And some more. Maybe it's just what we wanted - to open up. We steered our perspectives on education, work, different places, relationships, way of thinking, hilarious trips, growing old versus growing up, fitness and sports, and just about every other thing that got on our minds. There was this couple hugging exuberantly in front of us and she incorrectly guessed that the girl was weeping. We counted the stars - there were about six or seven of them, and she asked me if my eyes were still clear because on my first glance I didn't see any twinkling dot.

After all was said and done, I drove her to her home - a billboard, of all places. Laughs. It had been a nice, sincere day. I never realized until just yesterday how idyllic it was to sit on a fountain with a wonderful woman next to you.


The image isn't by me - I found it on this website and it's the same thing we ate. So I used it as well. Just giving credit to whom it's due.

I want to be honest to myself, so let me tell you a secret.

It's been a long time since I last admitted to myself that I loved somebody. And I think I'm feeling it again.

Let's name her Anne. She had been my classmate ever since third year college. She's beautiful, soft-spoken, genuinely kind, and very well-known (that might give you a clue as to how beautiful she really is - she's considered one of the prettiest of the batch). I had admired her from the beginning; after all, who wouldn't be attracted to someone who's an embodiment of elegant womanhood?

She'd been in a relationship even before we met (it's with some good-looking famous fellow), and she still was in it when we became friends. I was fond of her, but I didn't mind her having a guy. She looked happy with him, anyway.

As time passed by, we became closer (thank heavens our surnames weren't far from each other - that means we always sit close when it's on alphabetical order). She'd tell me stories. How we felt our studies weren't going our way. The sweet deeds her boyfriend does to her. Things like that. It was fun, sitting with her, laughing our way through experiments, tests and sentiments.

I did not notice, or maybe I just did not admit it to myself: but, oh well. I was falling for her. Then again, I knew it'd be a fruitless thing with a foreseeable ending: I fall, she doesn't, another hurtful interlude, end of story. So I never did anything about it. I'm happy with what we have, anyway.

And then, just recently, I heard that she and her boyfriend broke up.

I was a bit flabbergasted. How could a couple so sweet, apparently perfect, break up?

I don't mean to be assuming, or boasting, or something like that, but she suddenly seemed to want to have me closer (as we were already close before this). She spoke to me more often. She'd always be by my side. We talked more, she opened up more, about her family and childhood, but never about 'the breakup'. I figured she'd still be hurting.

Even so, it's not fair. I might, might be just a sack of support from her fall, but if she shows me that I'm important to her as well, that I'm a person she can hold on to, I don't know if I can stop myself from loving her completely. I heard rumors that they were back together, I'm not sure if it's true, she's not telling me anything - but she still makes me feel.. special, in some ways.

I, too, have thought of the fact that she's just playing with my feelings. But if you're me, and you're at the receiving end of all her kindness, you can't say that. You just can't. It's, well, different.

Don't do this to me. I might love you completely. And hurt myself in the end. I don't want that. You're not fair. Oh, darn. This sounded like a lovelorn teenager's love story. But it's a secret, so it should sound anything unlike me, right?

I have witnessed yet another showcase of fireworks the week before last.

Just recently I realized something: I love watching fireworks work. They're a beautiful mess in the heavens; radiantly so creative and bright. The canvass is the wide black sky: and then it flies, scattering specks of dazzling light and piercing vivid bangs. A shower of colors; whatever explodes mix perfectly with the others. Luminous blue pairs with green - while yellow and red gracefully falls down (they have this effect of descending slowly, like when something sinks in water).

And when they ride the air, everyone stops and stares. I once took my attention off the fireworks (that was hard) and had a peek at the faces around me: most of them had this facial expression of seeing something so pure. I don't know, I can't express it well enough - but when my eyes too lay themselves on those soaring, dancing explosions, I feel as if at those moments, the world stops, feels the evening air, and pause all the sadness and regrets - enchantment, maybe.

Photo courtesy of a friend of mine - let's just name her Gabrielle.