Love used to be two seats away from me back in high school, the guy with always nothing but a pencil and two spiraled notebooks that could be bought for five pesos in the market a pedicab away from our school; the guy who’d tutor us with Science as if it were strands of his unruly hair; the guy on a motorcycle across town with me holding onto his waist, waiting to go swimming with the barkada in the next barrio.
Love was playing thumb wars in the MRT while taking me home to Sta. Mesa during my first few years of college in Manila. By then, love wasn’t two seats away anymore but two long bus rides, and one big hack off my allowance. I remember thinking one late December afternoon on my way to his university, that love was this unnamed closeness that had lasted us four years. And that evening, I looked forward to a thousand more thumb-wars to win.
Streetlights spangled with parols in nearly every highway the bus drove through, and multi-colored Christmas lights hanging off of little karinderia placards made the words unreadable. His class ended at six, and half an hour later, we sat ourselves at the corner table of Terriyaki Boy, (which was really as much as we could afford for a Christmas celebration). Even inside the restaurant, the holidays were everywhere. A twinkling tree near the entrance, Jingle Bell Rock playing in a loop over the speakers, he even commented teasingly how Santa could possibly deliver my gift this Christmas if Rudolf was plastered on the glass that separated our table from the smoking area. I stuck my tongue out, “nandiyan naman si Prancer at Vixen eh.”
We walked leisurely around for almost an hour more after we had left Rudolf. A midnight sale was at hand, and the place was still bustling with life despite the time. People hurried along like ants through the crowd for last minute Christmas shopping, bags of bargained clothes and toys hanging from their hands. Yet none of the stalls seem to be drained in inventory by the shoppers. Elaborate light displays and parols hung like ornaments from the entrances, and life-sized Santas greeted them as they came.
“Merry Christmas Kat,” was all he said to my ear amidst the hustle and bustle around us. He was no romantic, but I was used to that.
“Merry Christmas din.” I smiled back at him, and was surprised for a split second to see the sparkle in his eyes to be one of a certain kind of sadness. But still, his smile was as charming as it ever was, the smile he’d only give to me, and that split second was soon forgotten. His arms had been around me the whole time, and he then leaned to kiss my forehead as we walked. He bought me a blue Santa hat in one of the last few stalls we passed, and I wore it the whole way home.
The tricycle ride from the highway to the alley near my boarding house didn’t take very long. The glimmering light decorations of houses along the street were usually left on until early the next morning, so the road was brighter than usual. But still, he insisted that he walk me to our doorstep, as he always did, and I assented gladly, as I always do. It was a quiet walk, and none of us said a word. They say love is most comfortable in silence, and that was how I felt as we strode along, his hand in mine. Love was walking in an alley with nothing to fear, not even the future; love was being able hold the hand of the person I was most secure with, and most loved by. I swung our hands pleasantly like a child on Christmas day. He remained silent.
“Tell me everything ha.” he then said when we were almost at the gate.
“Everything of what?”
“Of what you think.”
“Of what?”
“Of what I’m going to say…”
He faced me.
Right then, I remembered the unhappy gleam in his eyes a few hours back. There was no glimmer in his eyes this time, for there was barely any light to reflect them with, but I could see that beyond the darkness, the sadness was still there.
“I…you..”
It was a while before he spoke again, had he thought his lines out in his head beforehand, it must have been lost to him at that moment.
“Ano ‘yon Dani?”
He had looked down at our intertwined fingers, and his thumb started fiddling with mine, as if as an excuse to delay the moment.
“It’s not the same..” he whispered almost to himself, the quiver in his voice inaudible.
“What?”
The click of the Christmas lights hanging from the gate was like the ticking of a clock waiting for him to answer.
“It’s not the same.” He said again, his eyes still failing to meet mine.
“What do you mean its not the s--”
“I love you. But it’s not the same!” There was more guilt in his voice than sadness now. “I don’t love you that way anymore Kat.” He was back to whispering, and the very moment he uttered those words things around seemed to shut out, even him, and whatever he had said next was lost to my memory. Whether there were words of apology or comfort or an explanation, I cannot be sure, but somewhere in the deep corners of my memories of those few seconds, I do recall hearing almost as distant as the continents were far his whisper into the breeze, “I’m sorry.”
I stiffened as though there had been no muscle left in my body to move. Much as there were immeasurable things circulating my mind at that instant, I could say nothing. The lights along the street behind him twinkled and danced as they always did, and I wanted to blur into the background the way those lights blurred into stardust behind my fast-approaching tears.
He hugged me the very moment he realized I was crying. It was dark, and I was unmoving and made not the slightest sound; he could not have known there were tears tumbling like snowflakes down my cheeks, but still he knew. Four years had taught us that. Only as his warmth wrapped around mine did I realize he had tears of his own. He was never one to cry, and I knew that he cried then not for guilt, nor for pity, but for honesty. His tears had been there because he loved me still, somehow enough not to want me getting hurt. But I did. And it was he who had caused it. Love is he who causes you pain, yet you hug him back with every bit of strength in your body, and mean it.
After what seemed a lifetime, he pulled back, kissed me in the forehead and, ashamed and without a word, turned around and left. I read somewhere that there was one thing worse than being left behind, and it was the feeling of not being worth an explanation. To me it felt one and the same. We had been five dwarf-steps away from my boarding house gate, but it felt like miles as I walked towards it. I stumbled in as soon as I realized I could move my legs, afraid that he might turn around and see me standing there still, watching his hazy silhouette amongst stardust. The parol before the front door blinked as I passed and staggered, half-blinded, towards my room.
A long time ago, Love was two seats away from me; he who discussed the Social Sciences with me as naturally as if it were locks of his own hair; he who would fiddle with my finger for a little game of thumb-wars when I needed cheering up. Now, Love is just a silly star we all put at the top of our Christmas tree: distant, sparkling, colorful, and playing a monotone jingle bell rock tune from its tiny battery-generated Santa Clause speaker…Something that, no matter how bright or beautiful, will be nothing but a star in its little box, kept in the closet to be forgotten after everything is done.
© Vigile 2006.