of fears unnamed and words unsaid.
By: Shay Cho
Tags: Love Letters, Prose, Love, Missing You, Moving On

i miss you. not you, just you. everything else between us except you. the start to finish, the clichéd highs and lows. from all the butterflies in my stomach fluttering around like my belly was a greenhouse full of daisies and roses and carnations of different colors, to them dropping from their own weight into a bottomless pit when they cocoon, only to fly yet again soon after. from the quiet, comforting stagnancy i may have taken for granted, to the exhilarating thrill that made me feel alive—the same thing i ended up despising. what do you call that?

this was the first movie we watched together, remember? i told you it was one of my many favorite films, and you said it reminded you of us. “i’m your jesse, and you’re my celine.”

we met under unconventional terms, or maybe, people might say it’s actually normal. some people would deny it, maybe the hopeless romantics, but cynics like me would agree. we both pretended to be people we weren’t, at least on the surface; but at the same time, i would argue that we were ourselves when we fell in love. like newborn butterflies slowly escaping their cocooned selves, bit by bit, i unraveled you and you unraveled me. maybe, in more ordinary times, we would be on our first date in a coffee shop, holding up façades that had cracks. in those cracks, tiny rays of our souls would shine through, and those were what we would hold onto when we agree to have a second date. (see, it’s normal. normal people do that; pretend to be cool and funny by simply exchanging un-funny puns and memes in messages. then when you get to meeting them in the flesh, turns out they have more substance than just bernie sanders sitting with a mask on in various obscure backgrounds.)

no, we didn’t meet ordinarily. the first night we spent together was just me sitting on your lap after hooking up, trying to figure you out on my own because you were more interested on the book you were reading than the dolled up, fully-waxed girl on your lap. i already forgot what book you were reading then. (you see, i have myself fully convinced that i’ve already forgotten you, but forgetting why i want to forget you is a whole other story.) i remember giving up on starting a conversation that night; i just picked up my things and left, without another word. so just imagine my surprise when you actually replied to a message i sent days after that night. i also remember waiting a few hours before responding, not because i wanted to play hard-to-get, but because work kept kicking me to the curb. funny how i ended up ranting about that to you, and the rest is history. for once in my life, i took a leap. the feeling of triumph when you’re not sure if you’ll land up stable on both feet—you gave that to me.

like newborn butterflies slowly escaping their cocooned selves, bit by bit, i unraveled you and you unraveled me.

we become friends after a month of talking and getting coffee and beer every now and then, and i didn’t mind staying as that. in that month, you get a girlfriend and i continue dating around, and we just end up laughing about that one awkward night we shared. (still shivering at how fucking awkward it was, god.) being friends meant knowing each other better, and knowing each other better meant bonding over drinks and commitment issues, how movies leave me in awe and how music does the same for you, how you were a straw hut and i was a lost human in the woods trying to find my way back, only to find a straw hut to stay in for the meantime. i remember laughing at how oddly poetic and accomplished we wanted to seem in front of each other when we first met, when were just actual goofs deep inside. (right now, i’m racking my brain for more conversations, but nothing’s coming to mind. funny what a year can do to your memory.) you see, i can’t remember what else we talked about, because i was pretty sure we talked about everything under the sun. god, even exes we made miserable, and exes who made us miserable alike. i remember how it felt—or rather, how light it felt, it almost didn’t feel like anything. for once in my life, i wasn’t the sole one exerting effort and enthusiasm—you gave that to me, too.

at one point, we became close. almost too close for comfort. when she asked too much from you, you came to me. when they asked too little from me, i came to you. i didn’t ask so much about your relationship, because i didn’t want to push. all my life, it always feels like i’m the one trying to push, and by then i didn’t want to risk that in exchange of losing you and our friendship. you spoke in riddles, and you told me it felt like i was the only one who even gave time to figure out what it meant for you. you told me, “they ask for too much, but they give too little”. and i tell you, “while i give too much, yet ask for too little. it’s a curse embedded in human nature. we don’t know when enough is enough”. you look at me like it was the biggest revelation you’ve had in your life, and i laugh at you. i remember telling you relationships take a lot of work, and you retorting if that was the reason why i still haven’t found myself someone to commit to. in my mind, i ask that same question, because i didn’t know what the answer was myself. i tell you that for the past week, i’ve been dating someone but for some reason they still were not enough. i remember you telling me vaguely, “yeah, me too”, and we spent the rest of that night sitting in silence. for once in my life, i didn’t have to try so hard to make someone understand my soul. in that silence, we knew what it meant, and i never thought i would know how comfortable silence feels—you gave that to me, too.

you told me, “they ask for too much, but they give too little”. and i tell you, “meanwhile, i give too much, yet ask for too little. it’s a curse embedded in human nature. we don’t know when enough is enough”. you look at me like it was the biggest revelation you’ve had in your life, and i laugh at you.

you end up breaking up with her, and i ask for your help in rejecting the clingy man-child i dated. you see, i don’t exactly remember the timeline of whatever happened after this, but i know we ended up enjoying each other’s company a little too much than we expected. i remember my birthday. i remember that this is where it all started. it was my birthday, but i ended up cooking you pancakes for dinner because you told me that “letting you use my kitchen is my gift”. i convince you to mix grated cheese with your pancake batter and you submit, reluctant at first. you then tell me it’s half-decent, but the smile on your face tells me it’s one of your new favorite things. i hold them up on a plate, and you do one ordinary thing that i wouldn’t have pointed out if it wasn’t you. you look at me. (at first, i thought you were staring at the pancakes, but then i was disproved when i put it down on the counter to gauge your reaction.) i look at you, too. i don’t remember how long we stayed like that, but i end up taunting you, asking you if i can ask for another birthday gift. you take a step closer, smiling tentatively as you say, “sure, what do you want?”. i don’t know what comes over me. the holy spirit, perhaps? a sudden moment of realization? tongue(s) of fire? but i know, in that moment, i was sure. i remember asking you for a kiss. in that ordinary kitchen, with ordinary cheese pancakes on a plate to my right, your forehead rests on mine. you quietly mutter, “finally”, and you kiss me. slowly, but surely. for once in my life, i was certain of one thing—you. you gave me that, too.

i know i have yet to write about our unbecoming. in Freytag’s pyramid, this is the rising action. or in our case, the small things leading up to us. they say that for one to truly move forward, one must know what she’s moving forward from. my therapist told me that naming my fears might possibly give me some semblance of power over them, allowing you to conquer them in your own time. so now, i ask you. what do you call that?

the riddles and crossword puzzles, the analogies we made in our attempts to be poetic, the lost traveler and the hut we made up in our minds, the quiet glances, the bits of wisdom—all leading up to one extraordinary kiss in the midst of all of the world’s normalcy. the becoming, and the subsequent unbecoming. all of it. what do you call that?

what do you call us?