To whom it may concern

Image via FJB Facebook

I have become someone with so much time to spare lately so you get to read this. This is not a love letter, but a medium of telling the world of how great it is to be loved by someone like you, of how grateful and proud I am to have you as my man. You might not be aware of it, but you are a truly amazing person. You made love memorable and extravagant to me.

Looking back, there is not much I can remember about us, not even the exact moment I fell in love with you. The memories I can think of are either the happiest or the saddest ones. The day I left you was the most vivid. Probably because that was the most absurd and irrational decision I have ever made.

Our love story had a short, unnecessary pause, thanks to me. I regret breaking up with you that we have to give our love a second chance. It could have been the perfect love story of college sweethearts turned husband and wife standing the tests of distance and time.

Vaguely, we found our way back to each other’s arms and that is more than enough. You’ll just have to continue dealing with my mood swings and silent tantrums. You’ve gotten used to them by now, that is what I’m pretty sure of.

Excuse the long prelude and let me start with what I really want to do here. With bits and pieces of memories I picked, I decided to tell a story.

Years ago, I received a text message from someone. The message wasn’t meant for me and I was well aware that it was sent to me intentionally. I already knew who the sender was. He was someone interested in me, I was told.

One day, as I was going down the stairway from the library, this guy, the one who intentionally sent me a message not meant for me, called my name. I turned my head and met his gaze. He asked me if I could have a dinner with him on Valentine’s eve. My heart skipped a beat. I knew he liked me but that was too sudden, too fast.

Unknowingly, I said yes, and went my way.

Choosing what clothes to wear had never been my thing until the afternoon of February 14th that year. I wasn’t sure why, but I wanted to look at least presentable. There’s not much clothes to choose from anyway, so I went wearing my only pair of jeans and a top I thought is best among the rest of my shirts. We’re to meet by five, and I arrived five minutes earlier. It was too late when I realized I should have come a little later. I made myself look too excited, and that still embarrasses me every now and then.

He finally got there, too. Fifteen minutes late, and that made me feel even terrible. He said he was sorry for coming late, and I said it was fine, it was not that long since I’ve been here. But my insides were already rambling of embarrassment, of disappointment as well.

Riding a tricycle had never felt that long and uncomfortable, and thrilling. I got a bouquet of roses. We had dinner by the beach, talked about random things, awkwardly stared and smiled at each other, and I knew he was a nice guy.

It became a good start. We started to exchange text messages often. We became more visible to each other at school. We became closer.

School days became less ordinary. I had someone waiting for me every end of day. I had someone I could talk and laugh with every now and then. I had someone to eat lunch with every single day. He made me feel comfortable with him that I could fart and not worry about being embarrassed. He made me get used to having him around.

Then one day, as usual, I stayed at the school pub late while he stayed longer than usual at the student republic’s office. I was just waiting for him so we could leave school together. When he came, he told me to go with him. I did, and he got me all surprised.

I looked around and everything I saw was heart-warming. The cake, the flowers, and the pieces of paper with prints posted in the walls. “Will it be a yes?” is what I saw hanging from one side. My heart again skipped a beat, my knees weakened for a moment. How can he be so sweet?

And so I guess, I answered yes.

Next were days of bliss and love. He would send me cards and buy me flowers. He would carry my bag and hold my hand. He would walk me to the nearby terminal and watch me leave. He would play the guitar and sing me songs, and I really did not like the latter. He sang off-tone, but at least, the chords were fine.

Rainy days were not as gloomy. Summer became more vibrant. Christmas was a lot more meaningful. Weekdays were no longer frantic.

Even the marriage booth felt less unreal. We signed a contract, and exchanged vows and rings.

Yes, it was great but not until our school days ended. I had to go somewhere far. He had to as well. Later we had to break up. And there everything started to fall.

Time passed by slow. I went on with life. He probably did as well.

Until we got in touch again.

Love, being all mysterious and intricate, brought us back. And it was as dramatic as ever. He started a hobby of climbing mountains, and in one of his climbs, while standing perilously at one peak of Mt. Maculot, he dared to ask me “Will you be my girlfriend?” And I melted, who would say no?

I held his hand and let him take me. We climbed mountains together. One year and a month ago, we climbed one of the beautiful mountains of Benguet, Mt. Ulap. The terrain, the pine trees, the cold breeze, the scenery. They’re to die for. Nearing the summit, we took a detour for a photo op. It was my turn to take a good shot of him worthy of a profile picture. He set the camera’s focal length to 35mm and since the spot we’re on was a cliff and definitely life-threatening, I just hurriedly took photos of him not realizing he was actually kneeling, holding something in a little black box – a ring. I brought down the camera and looked at him, in awe. There he asked “Will you marry me?” So again, my heart skipped a beat, and I probably said yes seeing the ring’s on my finger shortly after that.

Over and over again, that’s how I think I’d fall for him. So, what exactly am I trying to tell you? I’m sorry. But you have to read it again, from the top. But this time, omit everything except the first letter of each paragraph. That’s what I want to tell you.

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