The Only Thing I Know About Love

I know not much about love. God, do I even know anything about love. But here’s what I know.

Sometimes, the least we expect out of people comes out in their most natural state.

You wake up in the morning to find them lying beside you with their shirts rolled up their tummy and their hand laying softly by your rib cage. The night before, you were both a mess. You were both drunk off wine and conversations.

He was never your type. No, you’re attracted to well-suited guys in ties and briefcases. He neither had both. He lived on baseball caps and sweats, on a machinery you can’t quite put a hand on.

He said he grew up with the pressure to be the best. Or so, that’s what his dad pounded him for. Number one, champion, greatest. Never second.

But he was sweet, when he looked neither of it. Never was a big doer and believer of all things cheesy, yet somehow he pulls together an unassuming night of movies, pizza and duvets, not big roses in bouquets. And I, on the other hand, smitten.

He has a smirk when he thinks of something that once made him happy, and a different smile when he looks deep into my eyes. Sometimes I wish to crack his head open only to hear what he’s been thinking. 

On days when he’s indifferent, upset or mad, his voice would echo the room and a lion was set out only to find regrets in his eyes and disblief in his hands. 

And still, we fall in love. We fall in love in their most natural state, as we least expected to.


I have, once again, went through a 6-month long haitus (probably even more, but I lost count). Since then, a lot has changed in just half a year. 

I’m writing again, there’s that. I’ve got a private blog. I’ve published a lot on there. And no, I’m not telling you. There’s some intimate closure I have with my published writings on there. I’m sorry. I will, however, try my best to fit in a little bit of my time to publish decent (except this) pieces on here. 

I am also, currently, on a 360-hour internship. And I am tired. But I am writing. Because I miss it. And there’s nothing else to say about that. 

I’m not sure what I’m trying to say here but maybe I just want to go back home. And maybe that isn’t so easy to do for some things. 

But this is home.

Summer Romance In a Fiction

He had brown, curly hair when I met him. He wore a black pants that sagged just right. I had my favorite sun dress on. He was a full-on sport guy. I was 17 and young. I had too much of my life going on. There were parties and night outs and all the boys I want to kiss and not wake up next to with. He was young and just as naive. He had all his life figured out. He played ball and went to church on Sundays. I lay on my bed hungover on Sundays. He liked me, he said. A lot, I asked. And laughed and laughed and laughed at the thought of someone liking me so much. He didn’t say anything. I kept on laughing. He stared at me until I finally stopped. Why, I asked again. His eye glimmered and faded into nothing. He looked down on his knees and pressed his fingernails into them. I looked away. I could no longer bear seeing him worship me so much. I didn’t deserve the way he treated me. And he did, for an interesting turn of events, treat me good. But I was scared of how good he treated me that long after all these will last, I will crave more and more until he no longer can give. And I can’t be too selfish to ask that much from him, when I only laugh in the middle of his sentences.

And now I look back, reading all the messages we exchanged. I just was never sure of him. Until today.

And I guess summer, like the feelings that come with it, lasts only for a short while but stays in our memories forever.

To Dad: A Letter

There were times when I never get to thank you for the little things. But mostly, I always forget to thank you for the big things. And as I write this letter for you, remember to always always ALWAYS buy me watermelon for dinner.

As a seafarer, it must have been hard to not see your girls grew to be as they are now, and even harder to imagine that one is nearing the end of college! But as to not feel like you’ve left out a huge part in their lives, all I can tell you is this: You did not miss out on us. We lived like any other young girls did. We went into kindergarten at 4 and to college at 16. On our 18 birthdays, we gathered around for an intimate dinner party. On Christmas, we had the usual. You know the stories.

But as years passed, while you’re away sailing into wherever and us getting crushes over Hollywood boys, you never failed to offer what you can. If not, even more than you can. You have always been our rock, the one to run into when we look for shelter. You’re strong enough to hold us into your arms, no matter what the situation comes. Thank you.

Thank you dad for all the things you’ve done right for the family. We never give you enough credit for what you do, but we love you. So here, for all the thank you’s I’ve missed, the guidance you’ve given, the support you’ve provided, the love you were never too selfish to share and for the sacrifices made for us, thank you. 

Happy father’s day, my captain! I’m always proud of you.


The Paradox of You and I

There’s beauty in us. The way we can say a lot by not saying anything, how we can never deliver what we truly feel nor imply the complications of what must come. As we lay side by side, our bodies are impalpable by all the natural senses and it is both irrational and well-grounded to think of us as one. I can feel your chest when I lay close to it, but never the words lurking around and in it. I see the veins in your arms and up through your temples but unable to find the energy that runs with it. You can look too long through my eyes, but not too long enough to see the soul within. If we stare, touch and feel a little more, would we be able to? At times it is baffling and a blur and yet I continue to see the different versions of ‘what if’s’ for the both of us awaiting to be discovered and lived. The negativity surrounding itself is, however, overriding the possibilities of happy ending, but so what? I am intensely imaginative and have compelled myself to believe that what can never be, may be. No matter the odds written for us by the gods, we have all the power in the world to create what must be created for our own. And whether that is grounding, terrifying or momentary, I don’t know.

All I know is there is beauty in our nothing.

What Happens Tomorrow

Tomorrow, I’ll wake up and hit the snooze button. In the next 10 minutes, I will do so again and finally, open my eyes. ‘’Today, it is’’ I will say. I’d grab my backpack, bite on my granola bar while tying my shoelaces, run downstairs, and feed Nugget with her 2-dollar dog biscuits. When the door swings open, I’ll sprint as fast as I can.

The wind will be on my shoulders, caving into the back of my neck. I will run into puddles and splashes of water will soak up the bottoms of my jeans. It will be cold and moist.

Tomorrow, I will meet you on the train station and you’ll be waiting for me in your black, over-sized sweater. My hair will dangle everywhere and my sweat marathons down the nape of my neck and through my shirt. In which, I will wipe them away hurriedly and carefully.

People sitting across, people running through. The lady announces the train’s departure. The blind man continues to strum his guitar.

Tomorrow, you will talk to me. While I catch my breath, my heart pounds a million times than it ever did until last year’s phonecall. You’ll continue to tell me stories and gossips. I’ll continue to listen.

The train will be packed. With I, silent. And you, indifferent.

Tomorrow, we’ll arrive to where we’re supposed to go. You’ll lead the way. I’ll follow. I might get a few scratches here and there, but the pain don’t feel as much, no more. You’ll rest your bag under the sicamore tree and say ‘We’re finally here.’

The birds will sing. While the time is ticking.

Tomorrow, I’ll ask you if you still think about her. ‘Her?’ you’ll say. ‘Whoever,’ I’ll reply.

Tomorrow, you’ll think. About her. About me. About whoever.

Tomorrow, I’ll know. You’ll know. But we’ll never say a thing.

The One You Will Love

I have never believed in ‘The One’ and meet the be-all-and-all and fall in love. ‘The One’ will not be kicking pebbles on your window, bring you soup when you’re sick nor kiss you in the rain because the perception of ‘The One’ is constantly being distorted by romcom movies, nagging love songs and Nicholas Sparks’ novels. But here’s what I know:

You will find the one.

The one who will wait 3 days after the date to call, because of some stupid rule of attraction. He will think this is stupid but does it anyway. He’ll be the one to send out a friend request on Facebook. He will ‘like’ a photo of yours and that will be the end of his ‘internet existence’ on your profile. The one who will wait a few minutes to text back to ensure ‘he is not that into you.’

You will find the one.

The one who’s not the Prince Charming (if he is, you’re lucky) of some castle, but rather a king of his own principles. He knows where he stands, what he believes in and what he wants. However, he doesn’t expect you to be of the same thinking. And with this, there will be arguments. Lots and lots of arguments.

You will find the one.

The one in the same jeans everyday and rotates his shirts every week, hoping you don’t notice (but you do). He won’t be too bothered by what everyone else thinks but rather if he is giving them to think about. The one who will pick his nose, fart and talk about his poo with you. The one who will be all gross and nasty.

You will find the one.

The one at the end of your bed, tapping with pencils on a make-up beat while you change for dinner. He’s going to complain of how much time you’re wasting. He’s going to get frustrated when his food isn’t served fast enough. But you’ll be holding his hand hoping to calm his down.

You will find the one.

The one who picks at your flaws, laughs at them and screams when you punch them. He’ll draw out every curve and bumps you have. You’ll listen and see how after every imperfection he kisses them softly. The one who will not hold your hands for too long because they get sweaty and yucky.

You will find the one.

The one who will constantly interrupt every important thing you have going on. He will be the one to spill your coffee mug on the artwork you’ve been working on for months. He will be the one to distract you on your paper works because he wanted you to watch the scene where something cool is supposedly to happen.

You will find the one.

The one who won’t put the toilet seat back down, or take the trash out. The one that could lay in bed with beer and sports channel all week. The one that would prefer to unsocialize because he’s hooked in his online game. The one that would almost not kiss you goodnight because he’s too drained from the game earlier.

But you know what? You will still love him, and you will find him.


*Originally posted at Medium