We met when we were 6. I remember you standing near the gate of my family’s house with your head down and tears streaming down your face. I picked a flower from the garden, the first one my hand could reach.
I walked towards you, close enough to see your eyes behind the curtain made by your hair. I extended my arm to give you the flower. You raised your gaze to meet my eyes. Your gaze dropped to the flower in my hand. I told you to take it. I told you that flowers are beautiful. I told you that my nanay feels better whenever I give her flowers. You said that you don’t like yellow, the color of the flower I was holding. So I rushed to pick another flower, this time pink. You wiped your tears away while I walked towards you again. You looked at me with those kind eyes, as if I can do no wrong. I remember that my heart skipped a beat. No one looks at me like that. I handed you the pink flower and you smiled at me. You told me your name and I told you mine. You pulled me, telling me that I’m supposed to play with you.
That’s how our story started.
Do you still remember that day? I am forgetful but I remember that day vividly. Do you remember the times when you sit in front of me and start telling me the stories that you read? You only read fairytales. You asked me why does one have to suffer before being genuinely happy. You asked me why do bad things happen to good people. You told me that you would like to have a prince charming when you grow up. So I promised to myself that I will be your prince charming and I will give you that genuine happiness.
Do you remember the day you told me that you like the sound of the piano? I immediately asked my father to pay for piano lessons because I wanted to impress you. I found myself loving the way my fingers touched the keys of the piano, producing beautiful harmonies.
Do you remember all those afternoons? You used to sit beside me and watch my fingers do their magic. After each piece, you whispered to my ear that I am amazing and my music makes you happy. You loved the way I played the piano so much that you wanted to hear me play another instrument.
You gave me my first guitar as a birthday present. Truth be told, it took me a while to learn how to play it because my gentle fingers couldn’t handle pressing on the strings against the frets. You saw me struggle and you kissed my fingers whenever I complained of the pain. I stayed up on endless nights, practicing how to play the guitar.
Isn’t it ironic? It’s just like your fairytales. I have to suffer first before I can make beautiful music, the kind of music that makes my soul stop and listen.
Do you remember the day that I was thrown out of my house due to my rudeness? I went to your house with nothing else but myself. You wrapped your arms around me and held me. You let me cry on you. You let me tell you how much I am suffering. You let me hold you tightly even though I was already hurting you. You stroked my hair and listened to me for hours on end. You told me… you told me that it doesn’t matter that no one else wants me because you will always be by my side. I held on to your words but where are you now? Is this the part where I have to suffer first before I become genuinely happy?
knowing
