My Turf

She was mean to him. He hated her when they were in highschool. But he loved her, too. Even then, you know. He already did.

When they got to college, their relationship improved by leaps and bounds. He took advantage of all sorts of technology to let her feel his presence. Of course to feel hers, too. Every morning he’d page her, back in the days when pagers were still the "in" thing. When SMS technology and cellphones took over, he begged and begged his parents to buy him a unit although he was (guiltily) aware that they could hardly afford it. He was not one to ask his parents for anything, but he made an exception then. Only because she told him, "Bumili ka na kasi ng cellphone!" And he could never say no to her. No, not ever.

The morning after one exceptionally delightful phone conversation, he lovingly dictated to the pager company’s message-taker the words that to him were all so meaningful:

"Connection of minds and spirits. Very refreshing.

Thanks for the trust. Can count on me anytime."

To this day, he could recite those words from memory in a breeze. That and the write-up he made for her for her college yearbook. All 150 words of it.

On highly inspired nights, he even wrote her letters which he planned to let her read when (not if) she finally comes around. "Not now, but someday." That he believed with all his heart. And he clung on to that conviction until he already had no choice but to let go.

One February night, several years after they graduated from college, she told him she needed to speak with him. It had been so long since the last time they talked. And the calls had been coming less and less frequently. Excitedly, he dialled her number. When she picked up, he asked breathlessly, "So? What is it?!"

She sounded real blissful. Even the distance could not conceal her happiness. He could feel her smiling and giggling like a lovesick kid through the phone line.

She told him how she just found out that the man she initially thought was way out of her league loved her back after all. He is hers, as she had been his since the night she first laid her eyes on him.

Now where does that leave the ol’ dependable friend? The one who slept on the sofa waiting for her to call? The one who’d organize get-togethers and cook for a bunch of people when all he really wanted to see was her? The one who ended up doing the silliest of things because what he felt for her was just too much for even both his mind and soul to contain?

Really, where does that recent turn in her love life leave the boy who used to stand in front of the mirror for hours on end, cursing the universe for making him look the way he did, believing that it was the only reason she couldn’t fall for him?

Without waiting to be told, he stepped out of the picture, out of her life. And very quietly so, not wanting anyone to notice. There’s no room for me here, he thought to himself as the tears fell again. His cheeks had already been used to the running droplets that only she could cause.

"I want you to meet him! Please! Tell me you’ll join us one day. I’m sure you two will get along real well."

Can I whack you in the head?, he thought to himself. She must be crazy. Or unbelievably dense. Or maybe both.

"I’m glad I finally found the right man!"

I’ve always been here. But you never saw me. "Right man is not you, dumb ass," he cruelly castigated himself.

She used to tell him on nights when he’d get all depressed over being single, "You’re a wonderful person. A girl would be dumb to not like you!"

Ha. If that were true, then you are undoubtedly the dumbest girl alive. I am not wonderful. If I were, then you would be with me now. Wonderful is not me. Wonderful is He. After all, he captured your heart–unwittingly and without effort.

Perhaps she would just die without ever knowing that such letters existed. That he filled countless journal pages with her name–attached to his, of course. She would never find out that those pages were stained with his tears and his kisses and the intense yearning he harbored for her all those years.

Or maybe one day, he will tell her all that she does not know. He will tell her about the letters. He will tell her about the nights he slept on the couch so he could immediately answer the phone when she called. He will tell her about the journals. He will tell her about how mighty difficult it had been to fall in love with another woman because she has become the yardstick by which he measures everyone else. How she held his heart for the longest time and broke it. Yes, yes, she didn’t mean to, he knows. But that doesn’t make it better. If anything, it only makes it all the more painful.

He just cannot rest without having some questions answered: What held you back? Was I really just a friend to you? What was I to you? What was wrong with me? What was it about me that you just couldn’t manage to see past?

Why didn’t you like me? Why didn’t you ever? Or did you? If you did, why didn’t you let me know? Why, why, why?

I loved you, really. Deeply. Genuinely.

I loved you. Not because, but despite.