GirlAtTheTeaShop
+Working as a barista at one of the local boba joints near my college was always interesting. Constantly surrounded by people my own age, listening to conversations of excited new students, observing long study sessions, giving “the usual” to frequent customers.
Though being behind the counter meant giving up my identity for one as the “boba girl,” being viewed as not an individual person with an actual personality and personal life but a girl that serves honey milk tea with boba and small pastries when one is in dire need of a study break, I realized that it wasn’t so bad. I was greeted by both familiar and fresh faces every single day and small talk came easy. The tip jar was never empty. Maybe not quite full, but I guess I was doing my job right.
There was a frequent customer named Alicen. What triggered my initial interest in her character was her aura—she just seemed like an interesting person. The way she talked, the way she dressed, the small singular dimple that formed when she smiled just to the left of her lips. How she smelled like vanilla. She was just the right amount of bubbly with an edge of sarcasm. Friendly. She ordered the same thing every time she came in. Taro milk tea with mini boba and one white chocolate macadamia cookie. Whenever I recognized her figure materializing in the store doorway accompanied by the light jingle of the bell above the door, I began her order immediately.
I wouldn’t say we became “friends,” really. We were just familiar with each other enough to make small talk about school and other things while I was taking her order, though I knew exactly what she came in for.
We formed an invisible relationship. Customer and barista girl taking her order. She always had a funny short story to share whenever she came in, usually with a friend or two whose names I could never really remember.
As the months passed, she came in less and less despite the frequent return of her friends. School, she said. It’s getting really difficult the closer I get to graduating. Understandable. She never seemed to be a fan of public studying, or studying at all, at that.
A few weeks passed before I noticed that she had stopped returning altogether, and that I hadn’t seen her friends in a while, either. For a moment, I regretted not ever exchanging contact information. Maybe if we did, we could’ve had some “bestie” type of relationship that all the other girls seemed to be fond of. Life went on and I continued to do my job, as always.
One day, after taking the order of a grumpy old man dragging a bored looking seven year old by the hand, I recognized the face of one of Alicen’s friends. She smiled at me as she walked up to the counter.
“Long time no see!” I greeted her. “What can I get for you today?”
After punching in a few numbers and handing her a receipt with some change, we made a little small talk since there were no customers walking in after her. How was school, how do you think you did on your midterms, how was life in general.
The last question seemed to pinch her a little bit. “It’s… okay.”
I played the part of a partially concerned stranger without overstepping boundaries between barista girl and any too-personal questions reserved for long time friends.
“I’m sure you’ve noticed that Alicen hasn’t been here lately,” she commented softly.
“Oh, you’re right. I haven’t seen her in a long time. Last time I spoke with her, school was really tough, wasn’t it? How is she doing?”
“This is so surreal, discussing it in a place like this after such a short time.” Her eyes seemed to bore right through me, like her focal point was somewhere in the array of coffeemakers and the tall menu behind me. “She passed away about three weeks ago… got into a car accident on her way home from the dorms to visit her sister. Drunk driver.” The grimace that pinched her face reanimated the pain of a freshly opened wound. Her eyes glossed over.
I gave her my sympathies and handed her the order. Taro milk tea with mini boba and a single white chocolate macadamia cookie.
“Today’s her birthday,” she said, clutching the small paper bag with the pastry encased within. “I’m bringing this to her grave. She would’ve liked a sense of simplicity aside from all the flowers and candles. Something she would really appreciate. Something normal, instead of something that screams death.”
As she walked out of the store, I felt the air change. A sense of emptiness, a lack of presence. A vanilla scent that I couldn’t quite remember anymore. I began to get a little emotional. Despite the fact that I never really had a true, genuine friendship with Alicen, something heavy tugged at my heart at the thought that she no longer existed on this earth. Deep inside my chest, I hoped that my prayers for her would somehow be heard. That my thoughts of her would reach her, let her know that the girl behind the counter cared.
As I fixed up my own order of a Taro milk tea with mini boba and one white chocolate macadamia nut cookie on my break and thought of Alicen’s friend, the tragic news, and the imagined scene of her bringing the boba and cookie to Alicen’s gravestone, I realized that I never got her name.
Tangible
+Listen, we shouldn’t be together anymore.
The words echoed in her head painfully, seeming to throb much harder than the actual pain holding her mind hostage at the moment. She desperately clutched at the sheets holding her to her bed, an uncomfortable empty warmth that didn’t seem to satisfy. She rolled over in hopes of a more comfortable position only to be faced with a pillow beside her own, empty, the sheets on that side of the bed completely untouched. Her pillow seemed hot and her face sticky from the dried tears, her only relief the soft breeze rolling in from the open window. Another round of hot tears formed against her waterline before spilling over and sending another warm streak down \her temples. Her thoughts ranged from love to betrayal to anger and back to love all over again. Then, self-hatred.
Mistakes, mistakes, mistakes. All hers. All her fault.
Failed relationship. Broken everything.The emotional pain rocked her body as she began to sob uncontrollably, her chest heaves lulling her into an uncomfortable sleep.
—
4:50AM. She began to stir to the heavy vibrations woke her, a dim blue glow softly illuminated her bedroom. Squinting and weary, she reached over and coiled her fingers over her cellphone and sleepily read the onscreen notifications.
4 Missed Calls
2 New Voicemails
1 Unread Text: 2:35AM
Hey, I’m sorry about what I said earlier tonight. You’re probably asleep already… I didn’t want to wake you. Please forgive me. Please take me back. Call me when you wake up in the morning, okay? I love you. -NA jolt of alleviation with a mixture of euphoria and quiescence washed over her before puffy-eyed exhaustion from dried tears blanked her mind and sent her into a more peaceful sleep.
6:47AM. Suddenly, completely awake and aware, she awoke in a panicked excitement and reached over and grabbed her cellphone.
Her fingers shook as she unlocked the screen and navigated her way into her message inbox.
No available messages to display.
Confused, she checked her call records.
No missed calls.
The lack of sleep began to take over her body now as it registered the present events. No one called last night. There were never any existing voicemails with messages of reconsideration, regret, or intentions of fixing things. There was never a text.All senses of hope seemed to shatter just her heart broke all over again.
It was all just a dream.
The Knot
+We were both nineteen when we first officially met. She was skinny and always wore hoodies that were a-little-too-big and I just came to school in plain white t’s. She was overlooked, I was the nice guy. She read books, I chilled in the library because I just liked the scent of them.
One day, I was walking through the dorms opposite to mine to drop off a friend’s jacket that was left in my car the other night. Upon making my way back toward the exit, I passed a door, slightly cracked and left untouched unlike most of the other girls in that dorm had done with theirs. No whiteboard with a name inked on it with a hot pink dry-erase marker, no stickers, no decor hanging from the doorknob with some cheesy line along the lines of “Currently dreaming, please do NOT come in.” Not even a “Do Not Disturb” sign.
From the inside, I heard light sobbing, high pitched and soft like a songbird slowly dying in the street. I don’t know why I did, but I stopped and peeked inside out of a random bout of concern and compassion. There was a girl sitting by herself in the dorm, crying hard into the palms of her hands. She glanced up for a moment at the ceiling, similar to the way people seek the sky to question God at the sight of tragedy. Though most of the other dorms were occupied by two girls, the other bed and the other side of the room was completely bare and dormant. I pursed my lips in hesitation before rapping lightly on the door with my fist.
“Excuse me,” my voice cracked, “I heard you crying from out here… um, are you alright?”
“Um, yeah…” She quickly swiped the sleeve of her hoodie underneath both eyes and smoothed out her hair, clearly startled. I saw her kick the bottom drawer of her dresser shut through the slit in the doorway before she made her way to the door.
“Can I help you?”
I recognized her face quickly. She was in my four o’clock Tuesday/Thursday English class.
Awkward.
“I don’t mean to sound creepy but I kind of overheard you crying on the way out… I just wanted to make sure you’re alright?”
“Oh… I’m fine.”
I didn’t believe her for one second.
“You’re in my English class.” Smooth. “Uh, wanna grab a coffee or something?”
“I don’t drink coffee.” She shifts her weight to her other leg uncomfortably.
Fuck.
“…but I do like tea?” She offers a shy and polite smile.
“Boba, maybe?” Unless she doesn’t like boba. I’m horrible at this and she can tell, but at least I tried.
“Sure.” She smiles at me again. “Just let me grab my keys.”
She walks back into her dorm, closing the door only slightly and for a split second I’m wondering if she’s going to change in front of me as she grabs a piece of garment off of the drawer. I hear a jingling of keys as she swipes them off of her desk on the way back to the door. I notice she’s only in a sweater and leggings. She quickly slips on a pair of short boots before reappearing in the doorway. Not exactly the thirty minute wait I was expecting.
“After you.”Boba dates slowly turned into study dates, study dates turned into movie nights. You catch my drift.
The more I got to know her, the more I started to like her, naturally. Her name was Kayla. She was cute in the petite Asian girl kind of way and didn’t doll herself up like the girls at my school that I was used to. Always came to class a few minutes early and the type to stay after to ask a few questions about the latest assignment. Before I knew it, she’d become my personal tutor.
I made her my girlfriend after a few months. It was a mediocre relationship, but nothing negative at all—trips to the mall and the movies, high school style. I carried her books to class and she swung by my dorm occasionally with onion rings or french friends and my favorite boba.
One day, she invited me into her dorm.
Score.
Not exactly in the I’m-totally-gonna-get-it-in way, but in the I’ve-been-seeing-this-girl-for-a-few-months-now-and-this-is-the-first-time-she’s-ever-invited-me-in type of way.
The first thing I noticed was that her dorm was still fairly barren, save the card I bought her for Valentine’s Day sitting on her nightstand, her laptop on top of a stack of textbooks and a small piggy bank sitting on the corner of her desk. The other side of her dorm had an extra bed but that part of the room was still bare. She’d already explained to me that the lack of estrogen at our school had blessed her with a room to herself. She kept that side of the room neat, though, just in case another girl was sent her way.
Before we headed out on a dinner date, she told me to wait in her room while she freshened up in the bathroom down the hall. She turned on her iHome for me before leaving.
“I’ll be back in a few minutes, sit tight!” She kissed my cheek and left the room.
Lauryn Hill’s voice trickled in from the speakers. I smiled.Fifteen minutes of twiddling my thumbs and gazing around her minimalist type of room passed before I noticed something sticking out of the bottom drawer of her nightstand.
I noticed this for two reasons:
One, because she’d always made sure all of her drawers were closed and her room was kept tidy before she’d left the room each time we had gone out.
Two, because the item was so odd and seemed so misplaced that it stuck out like a sore thumb.It was a rope.
I pinched it between my thumb and forefinger and gingerly pulled it out, feeling kind of awkward and guilty like I shouldn’t be going through her stuff and as if I was handling her underwear. A good five feet of rope came out of the small opening of the drawer before it got stuck. I glanced at the door before opening it just wide enough to be able to pull the entire thing out.
Before I could register what it was, I noticed a perfect knot tied to the end of the rope. It had gotten caught in the drawer slit prior to opening it wide enough because it was too large in circumference to allow it to slip through.
A knot perfectly loose enough to tighten the snare at the end, yet tight enough not to give and unwind.A noose.
Horrified, I threw the rope back into the drawer and kicked it shut, standing up. It all made sense now.
The day I had caught her crying, she wasn’t staring at the ceiling. She was staring at the ancient ceiling fan, replacement long overdue, rusted to the surface.
Just then, she walked back into the room, her face alight with a sweet smile before settling on the horror on my face. Her eyes wandered to my feet, unintentionally guarding the drawer behind my ankle, shut but about two inches of the rope sticking out of the corner.She sighed and took my hand, seating herself on the bed.
“Why?” I asked accusingly, not bothering to sit beside her where she’d motioned me to sit. “Why haven’t you gotten rid of this?”
“A reminder,” she breathed. Her eyes glossed over, but she never took them away from mine. “I have more reasons to live than I do to ever use it.”
The silence was unbearable. I know I had only known her for a few months, but even if it was just a token of regret that she’d decided to keep, I was still confused.
Breaking the silence, she took a deep breath. “You changed my mind.”
“How?” My tone of voice gave away my clear sense of disbelief.
“You smiled at me.”
The Storybook
This is the story of a girl,
Who cried a river and drowned the whole world…
No. In the absence of these rivers was that of spite and anger; no abundance of tears would ever be enough to deliver. Little slivers of her heart, shattered pieces and silver glitter are the only shreds that linger within the ceramic casing of the coldest artery. There was no clear heartbeat, just the echo of a melancholy symphony.
She’d been breathless, half-dead and countless times, met the coldest ends. Lost relationships, friendships and all kinds of other ships shipwrecked on her life’s shore. Countless nights she slept on the cold beach wondering if she’d ever deserved more, or if this was exactly what she deserved. The endless internal battles constantly endured, the question always remained: would there ever be anything that could quell the hurt?
That’s where the pen and paper come in. White sheets, clean slates. Black ink, new fates. The scrawlings and scriptures could serve as a recreation of the parts of life that have been soiled, ruined. Reminiscing in dark memories and wallowing in self-loathing would never save her… but the blank pages could do it.
She picked up the pen and began the first line, calligraphy. The sound of ink scratching out words, a bittersweet symphony. The art of the heart, blood flowing through the veins and down through the fingertips expressing the words of the soul. The turning of the pages covered in her own vocabulary was simply the mold. Well, as she’d carefully told.
Writing. The only candlelit room for the prisoner of her own mind, the only thing that could successfully pass the time and keep her well occupied. Unslicing every scar, physical and emotional. Reverse and change the two mindsets, pessimistic and cynical. The only source to channel both love and hate into a successful compilation. The stories blended with emotion, a part of her soul stamping an imprint on her greatest creations. The masterpieces created with her own fingertips, with the passion found within the lesions of the past. Work inspired by pain, art inspired by beauty, blended together into an 8 by 10 1/2 spiral notebook. Persistent as the four seasons.
The Storybook, she’d titled it.
Expressions of everything she’d ever created.
Signed and dated.
Serving as the physical proof of her revelation—She made it.
S t r e e t l i g h t s
I always count thirty six of them on the drive when you take me home, but I’m always asleep before we reach the last stoplight before my house. I fall asleep to the soft hum of your engine, the heater blasting like a warm bottle of milk for a small child.
You always wake me up softly, a light brush of my hair or touch of the shoulder. I always wake up to your dark silhouette on the other side of the car, just your outstretched hand illuminated by the dim golden glow of the streetlight overhead.
Through your window I can the light by the staircase, left on, while the rest of the house is dark.
We say goodnight and I open the car door, greeted by the chill of the middle of the night and rush up the steps to get to my front door. I sleepily jiggle the keys until it finally swings open and I turn around to see you, still waiting. I can’t see you through the darkness, through your car window, but I know you want to see me inside safely. I close the door. I climb the stairs, turning off the lights as I reach the top and turn on the light as I enter my bedroom. I walk to my bedroom window, tired but happy, and search you out in the dark. The light that flickers in my window lets you know that I made it to my room. I hear your engine rev with slight acceleration before returning to a hum as you gain distance, before I hear nothing.
Goodnight, love.
I remove my hand from the blinds where I’d bent them, allowing them to rearrange themselves back into orderly fashion.
I know where you’re going now.
You’re going to her house to see her, possibly cuddle and a little more than that, and I know you’re going to spend the night. I saw the small knapsack, softly bulging with the thin fabric of a tank top and maybe a pair of basketball shorts in your backseat when I got into your car.
I sit here and entertain myself with the fact that maybe there is a possibility that you secretly love me; maybe I can feel it telepathically in the way you so gentlemanly see to it that I get into my house, my bedroom, safely. The way you wake me in the darkness of your car. Do you think I look beautiful while I’m sleeping? What are you thinking when it is time for you to wake me up and tell me that I’m home? Or do you see nothing? Another homegirl in your car seat, snoozing deeply.
Thirty six streetlights. I count them before I fall asleep when you take me home from our best friend outings. Sushi bars, movie nights, our little sessions. You’re an insomniac while I am just exhausted easily.
Seven streetlights I watch you pass as your car zooms down my street before you round the left corner and you disappear. I know you’re going to see her because you turn left when your house is the opposite way, and I can always smell the scent of her perfume on your sweater the next day.
I wonder if you’ll ever notice how I feel.
+Growing Inside
She was only sixteen.
She and her boyfriend had been together for nearly a year and a half, now… and in her eyes, was time plenty long enough to be able to sort out her feelings. She was in love, and he loved her too. Many times already, they had shown each other.
This time, however, was different.
Fast forward to three weeks after the event.
Over the toilet her head hung, hair matted to her temples from the sweat, dried tears streaking just beneath her lower lashes and new ones forming in the corners of her eyes, the taste of fresh bile in her mouth. Her heart had dropped into her stomach a week prior to this toilet fiasco—the week when she was sure she had missed her period.
He came over that day, paranoid yet skeptical, not quite sure how to react and clearly trying to convince himself that the news couldn’t possibly true. He was only seventeen. But she had offered him the proof on the plastic stick that had been placed onto the counter. Her eyes were puffy and red from the tears, her cheeks sticky and her lips twisted into a grimace. He held her, kissing her hair and drying her eyes, telling her that everything was going to be okay.
Fast forward to one month after the event.
Slowly but surely, a little mound has begun to grow underneath her shirt. She would not be able to hide her pregnancy much longer. Today, she would tell her parents.
In a fit of anger, her father had backhanded her boyfriend across the face, his wedding ring crushing against his cheekbone. Horrified, the girl’s mother lifted him off of the floor, however, she did not say anything else.
The two left the house and went to a nearby park. Whatever happens, he tells her, I’m here, and I’ll always be here. I won’t run away, and I’m going to stay by your side. He holds onto her from behind as she sits on a swing, her heart heavy. She collapses into his chest, and he holds her, hoping to keep her together.
—
Fast forward to two months after the event.
She has realized that her financial situation is not enough to support her child. She knows that her parents will never be able to accept their grandchild due to his or her conception at such a young age. Though her boyfriend was there to support her and would surely continue to do so, she knew that carrying out this pregnancy would heavily tax both families; they would not be able to support the baby themselves. She had just grown old enough to get a license, however not old enough to hold down a steady job nor get enough hours to be able to keep the baby from growing hungry.
Every night, she was horrified at the fact that her child would have to go hungry each time there was a financial slip or if she didn’t get enough hours at work. Terrified that the baby would have no one to count on, for neither parents of she or her boyfriend gave them their blessing or support.
—
Two months and one week after the event.
The news has spread around school and she is bombarded with accusations of being a slutty, disgusting bitch; sixteen and pregnant. What a fucking whore. The words echoed in her head, however she did not have the strength to defend herself. Any attempts at defense were rewarded with plenty more accusations, name-calling and Biblical references. Her teachers frowned upon her for her choices, her friends shunned her for her status. She gave up. Her boyfriend received many comments a day from other males: You shouldn’t have done that, man. Now you’re stuck with the bitch for life.
None of them, her parents included, took into account that her boyfriend was the only boy that she had ever made love to. That they had both lost their virginity to each other. None of them took into account that they loved each other dearly… that, No, you’re sixteen. What could you possibly know? and No, you don’t know what love is. None of them took into account that they had always used protection. Not once had it failed them until two months ago. None of them took into account that she had cried herself to sleep every night, thinking about the ridicule of her child for being the son or daughter to a teenage mother. That she was deathly scared for the fate of her child.
Every night, she prayed to the Lord, telling Him that she was sorry, so sorry for what she was about to do. She asked Him to take care of her baby in Heaven despite her sins, asked for His forgiveness or at least the forgiveness of the child, begging Him to keep the child safe and happy, like she was incapable of doing.
—
Three days after.
Both she and her boyfriend met at the park they had sat at the day they had confessed the pregnancy to her parents. He had a look of blank sorrow in his eyes. Both of them had split the bill—a sign that both of them had agreed to proceed with the operation. He looked into her eyes. She was an empty shell, canyons carved beneath her eyes from the lack of sleep, skin sallow, body brittle and weak. He could see the regret, the pain, the agony, the suffering. He suffered, too, but not as badly as she.
I love you, he murmured, but maybe we should take some time apart from each other to think about things… think about what happened. She nodded her head. Both of them were far too distraught to pursue the happy relationship they once had.
I love you, too, she sighed as a tear left her eye. The tear was not for him… nor were the three words. She prayed that the baby would hear her somehow.
Her heart was crushed under the weight of the hardest decision she’d ever had to make in her entire life.
The same thoughts crossed their minds as they said goodbye.
Perhaps we are too young to be able to create something beautiful, according to what we have experienced. Perhaps the world is too unforgiving, according to what we have witnessed. Perhaps what we did was a stupid mistake, according to what the Bible tells us. Perhaps our child will never forgive us.
Softly, he kissed her forehead and walked back toward his car.
They would never get back together nor speak to each other ever again, for three days before, a part of their hearts died. Their love died, alongside the death of their unborn child.
TheCrave
I’m young, I’m exhausted, and I have not had enough free time to enjoy my own youth. My entire life, I’ve been too busy occupying myself with the interests of others, trying to satisfy their needs, quench their various thirsts for this and that in attempts to receive this warmth of this so called “love” I’d been promised countless times over.
Yet, I have yet to receive.
My entire life, I have not felt any sense of warmth from anyone… not even my picture-perfect family. The toothy smiles plastered on our faces in every family portrait are just facades used to deceive everyone into thinking that we actually love each other. My mother has this obsession that her life must be the epitome of perfection, her family included, even if she has to fake it. Never once has she ever tried to strike up a conversation with any of her children nor coo them unless she was in front of someone that she felt the “kind and beautiful mother” impression was called for.
Fuck that.
Not once, have I ever felt any warmth from anyone, I repeat… aside from my shower head and the heat emanating through my coffee mug to my fingertips.
My mother tells me that I’m selfish for seeking anything beyond her disgusting sense of “perfection.” That I should be perfectly content with where I am and who I am, even though all of it is fake for the most part, aside from the fact that I hate my mother and my family and everyone else.
Still waiting.
Still waiting for someone to waltz into my life (or should I say slow, slow death) and show me that life is worth living… or at least trying to live.
What Lives Inside
That girl.
She’s beautiful, no doubt about it… but she could never find the self-esteem to quit makeup, cold turkey. Never seemed to find a proper substitute or a way around it. Personally, I think she’s doing just fine—not perfect, but she’s getting by. What I like most about her is what’s derived from her mind. Pretty little skull of hers has a knack for storytelling and spoken word; she has a lot of time. But short glances at her reflection in the mirror almost serve as land mines, obstacles to her own existence. Insecurities with an impressive persistence. She tends to have a lot of moments of mind’s silence—I guess she just needs someone to listen.
I feel like I have this connection with her, like I know her as well as the back of my hand… but then I realize that sometimes even I forget what the back of my hand looks like. Sometimes to me she’s simply a stranger… I no longer recognize her reflection in the mirror. Particularly when she allows her vulnerabilities get the best of her, get to her and lets her strength falter.
Sometimes I feel awkward. Knowing what she knows, like I’m some stalker. Living life in her shadow, following her everywhere she goes, anticipating her reaction without ever really knowing… leaving it up to her to show me. At times I question if she even knows me. Unpredictable. Guessing games. No two things are ever the same.
I’ve witnessed her die inside many times over, reborn into a new person, consistently. It’s… different. Knowing her, and then not knowing her, and then getting to know her all over again. It’s a mystery, really. Being a stranger in one’s own body. Multifaceted diamond, different every time you look at her, depending on where the light hits.
Multiple personalities.
It’s interesting encountering yourself within yourself, living alongside your mind in a separate body, seeing yourself as a different person,splitting yourself up into two different mentalities… because that girl is me.
I’m simply the conscience… what lives inside of her.
+This is for you.
When we first met, I couldn’t even picture attending high school dances with you nor did I figure a relationship between us actually had any chances. I mean, we were thrown together under typical friendly circumstances and we started off with short conversations and awkward glances. But you proved me wrong. Got to know me like a perfect gentleman, presented me with roses and the possibilities of romance. Had me entranced with your gentleman approach, but mostly with the dimple carved near your lip that you know I love so much. What can I say? You had me enchanted.
I remember those chilly nights when we first got to know each other last winter; remember how some other guy left me scarred and how you carefully picked out the splinters. I was weak and vulnerable but you were so perfect and held the capability to turn the tables. You were wonderful. I remember those nights when we took long walks down dark streets and how your presence made my heart beat so hard, fluttering in my chest like a flock of doves vibin’ to some hardcore rap, sixteen bars. Until you’d stepped into the loneliest time of my life, everything before you had seemed so sub par. I had just endured one of my biggest internal wars when you stepped in, and there you were all of a sudden, holding my hand afterward, welcoming me back and kissing my battle scars.
This is for the times when you bid me goodnight and kept a smile on my face from when I slept to when I awoke, blessing me with sweet dreams simply with the words you spoke.
This is for the cold nights that you kept me warm and kept me safe even when my mind was stormin’ up something to destroy me, but you kept me at peace with just the mental image of your face.
This is for the nights that you held me in your arms and brushed the hair away from my face when I cried to you about my past, for forgiving me for all of my mistakes I’d made before you, for loving me regardless and showing me that you loved me, too.
This is for you coming into my life and showing me that there are better things, for teaching me how to live right and for taking care of me and showing me the true happiness that love brings.
Baby, this is for you.
I’m so mesmerized by everything that you do, because I’d never met a man that could make me feel quite like you… and I never wanna do you wrong, so I wanted to give you a little reminder that, well, I love you. So, thank you.
+VibeWithMe.
We’d spent all summer taking trips to Wingstop and the book store, missions with no objectives but we liked to believe that we lived life on the “good side,” whatever the good side was actually like.
The first time we’d met, I saw him on stage at an open mic night. That fool just picked it up and rapped into it, sent his magical flow through the speakers and shot me right through the heart—his lyrics had me aimed right down his sights. His flow was so sick, I vibed to it, all eighteen bars. He rapped about his life coming back up and within his eyes, I could almost see the scars. But by the end of his flow, his eyes lit up like he’d just won a war and suddenly being at that coffee shop felt so surreal. As he walked off stage, he glanced into the audience. We made eye contact and suddenly the strangers seated around me drowned out into silence.
We ran into each other in the parking lot. I told him I liked his performance and he thanked me like a perfect gentleman. I guess after his performance, he just planned on bouncing and I questioned why he didn’t stay to hear the rest. “I just need someone to listen.”
I nodded, pulled out a stray sticky note from my purse and scrawled my number on it. “I could be that someone.”
“You try’na pick me up?” He laughed, folding it and tucking it away into his tween jacket, breast pocket.
“No,” I sighed. “I just liked your flow, and I know what it feels like to need someone to listen to you every once in a while.”
That night, he texted me, spit me a flow electronically… introduced himself, basics, name and age and mentioned that he had a bad case of insomnia and was addicted to coffee. It was strange, really, but well appreciated. I spent a good thirty minutes of that evening thinking up a few good lines to send back at him, hoping that it had enough bite, or at least enough to keep him thinking through his night-owl habit, enough to suffice through the night.
Before I’d drifted off into sleep, 2AM, another text: “Fairest lady of them all, can I take you on a date, perhaps show you right? If yes, meet me at the joint with the open mic tomorrow night.”
—
We sat at a booth near the door; the place was packed. He slipped me a half-folded piece of paper and laughed. I opened it, greeted by a sixteen-bar rap about how I sparked his interest when he glanced at the crowd, a classy lady, well kept and how I was almost like an Asian Snow White, beautiful and red-lipped. It suddenly occurred to me that I came to the performance last night with the reddest lipstick I owned.
“The color suits you,” he said aloud.
“Impressive,” I commented, tucking the sheet of paper in a Moleskin.
“Sorry,” he smirked, “I don’t usually take my dates to coffee joints and then try to grace them with a flow… you know?”
“Well, I appreciate you taking the time to spit a few rhymes to me via this piece of paper, guess I’ll save it for later. I must say, well said, the way you said it, and I see you had it printed, so I gotta give you some credit. Right?”
“I see you’ve got some rhymes of your own, Miss.”
So polite. I wasn’t sure what I had fallen for first, his vibe or his gentleman approach?
We spent the rest of the summer texting each other raps about this and that, I sent him some spoken word when the time called for it. Occasionally we spoke on the phone. He was a perfect gentleman and I responded appropriately; we kept it quite classy… but nothing compared to the poetic conversations we shared in person.
Nothing compared to the conversations we had in his home-made studio posted in his bedroom, right in front of the mic and over a cup of coffee.
One night, I headed over to his place and we collaborated; each line we dropped from came straight from our souls, finely cultivated. After a few run throughs and deciding on a beat, we made a spoken word piece on video and titled it “VibeWithMe.”
That same night, he at the end of the piece, he asked me to be his lady and I agreed. Creative couples call for poetic masterpieces, but our finest masterpiece yet would be our relationship.
“Vibe with me.”
+Euphoric.
The school year had just begun and my friend had signed us up for a performance during the Homecoming rally. We’d agreed to do a partnered choreographed dance, we were one man short, I needed a partner, and word had it that this one kid danced, and danced extremely well.
He was 5’6”, Filipino and friendly. Standard description of an acquaintance, I know. But that’s how I knew him before I really knew him. I didn’t really know much else about him, much less his name until we were sort of thrown together at dance practice. Rewind back to when we first met. He was wearing a black v-neck, basketball shorts, long black socks and a charcoal grey pair of Vans. Simple.
Did I mention how much I liked v-necks and simple?
“Hey,” he nodded at me, water bottle in hand. His voice was deep yet soft; it held a certain ring to it that almost gave me goosebumps. “I guess you’re my new dance partner.”
Either my time of month was approaching rapidly or I was just hitting female puberty all over again because, Jesus, my hormones were going crazy that night.
The first few weeks of practice were tiring but bearable. We didn’t talk much aside from what the last two counts or so were for the choreo or if we knew when the next practice was. We’d shared a few plates of chili-cheese fries after a few performances but not much else. We were borderline acquaintances slash friends. Knew each other well enough to greet each other with a hug, but not well enough to really kick it outside of dance practice.
One night after practice, I suggested that, maybe he come over and we could order a pizza? He agreed. We headed over to my house and kicked it, watched a few movies, cracked a few jokes. I’d enjoyed his company thoroughly.
It wasn’t long before we started hanging out on the regular. It wasn’t long before I found myself searching for excuses to get closer to him, either. Poking his side to tickle him as a “friendly” gesture, scooting a little closer to him on the couch because the pizza box was taking up too much space, reaching over his lap to grab the remote.
I remember this one weekend so clearly. It was close to midnight and I invited him over to my house after we attended a mutual friend’s party. We chilled downstairs until my house grew quiet. Parents went to sleep, brother went out with his friends. We migrated upstairs into my room, but the house was quiet enough that we didn’t bother with the TV. We just kind of sat there and cracked jokes at each other. As time went on, we grew tired and we were suddenly laying down next to one another on my bed. He was wearing a nice button up and the most wonderfully scented cologne that I was eating up all night. I craned my neck the slightest bit so I could get a better whiff. I felt silly but it was so worth it. I poked his side playfully again. “You’re falling asleep.”
He raised his eyebrow at me. “Oh yeah? Not as tired as you are.” He responded with a poke to my side.
When he smiled and reached over to jab my ticklish side, a single, deep little crater formed near the corner of his mouth. His dimple. The cutest thing I’ve ever seen in my seventeen years of life. My heart stopped and suddenly I felt the urge to kiss him. He sat up, bringing me back to earth and told me that it was almost one in the morning, that he should probably head home and that we could hang out tomorrow. I was thoroughly disappointed—he was so damn close… but at the same time, I wasn’t sure if I was ballsy enough to have done anything.
The next evening, I’d spent two hours getting ready. I didn’t know why; we’d hung out hundreds of occasions beforehand AND we danced together. He knew what I looked like without makeup, hair tied and in basketball shorts for dance practice… I’m sure he wouldn’t care what I looked like, but I spent the extra time, anyways. He came over to my house and we found ourselves chillin’ in my room again. “You look really pretty tonight,” he commented, before asking me if I could get him a glass of water. “Not my house, I don’t want to be rude.”
“Lazy,” I playfully accused before heading downstairs to fetch him a glass. I didn’t respond to his compliment appropriately, as his request for a glass of water effectively threw me off. As I reached the top of the stairs to get back to my room with a full glass of water, I suddenly saw a flurry of pink and red encased in clear, shiny film within the frame of my bedroom doorway. A bouquet?
“I know it’s only been a few weeks since we’ve really gotten to know each other… but will you be my girlfriend?”
I placed the glass of water on the night stand before running into his arms and being held in the longest, warmest hug of my entire life.
Kissing him for the first time was by far the best memory, though. The warmth of his lips seemed to ignite the fireworks in my heart; it would not stop pounding for the entire duration of the kiss and I was feeling so lightheaded I was practically flying. His kiss was so hot that it urged every fiber of my being to cling to him and hold him close for as long as I possibly could. The butterflies in my stomach fluttered even more crazily when he did something romantic, like cupping his hand to the hollow of my waist or holding the back of my head as we kissed. I wanted him so badly. I craved his lips every time we were in a room together and when we were alone, the electricity between us sent shivers up and down my spine and imploded a flock of doves throughout my insides.
Every kiss took my breath away. Every touch left a trail of fire on my skin, and every night we spent together left my cheeks flushed with both desire and satisfaction. He was my everything.
My first love.
+Can’t Forget About You
Unforgettable
That’s what you are,
Unforgettable
Though near or far.
Like a song of love that clings to me,
How the thought of you does things to me.
Never before
Has someone been more…
2AM. We were sitting on the sidewalk in front of his house, next to an empty bottle of Skyy and a half-open box of cigarettes. He fiddled with his Zippo, weaving it through his fingers out of habit before his hands got a little shaky. You’d think we’d both be experiencing the greatest buzz of our lives, considering that he just threw the most amazing going away party for himself in the history of going away parties. Instead, we were sitting in silence underneath a dim street light.
“Can’t believe you’re moving,” I managed. It was so blunt and out there that I almost laughed… the single topic we’d been so carefully avoiding all evening.
It suddenly occurred to me that I probably looked like a mess. Scuffed nude pumps from drunkly stumbling through the front yard, ripped black tights from when a little stray string got caught on the dining room chair on the way to the bathroom, a worn silver party dress that was missing a few sequins. It was almost funny.
He sighed next to me. “Yeah.”
Suddenly I felt my cheeks grow hot and my vision became blurry. My lower lip quivered. “Remember a few years back when I said that if you ever left me, I wouldn’t see you off?”
He nodded once.
“Yeah, well I’m holding myself to that. Don’t expect me at the airport tomorrow, you douchebag.”
He laughed. A worn, sad, tired laugh. I felt his hand on mine, so warm. He wasn’t nearly as drunk as I was, but I appreciated the sympathy.
Many nights we’d spent here, kickin’ it on the curb in front of his house, whether it be chatting about nothing in particular to catching our breath from sprinting away from busted parties. He lived in a quiet neighborhood where the neighbors didn’t give a crap about much so long as you didn’t burn their houses down. How many summers did we spend together on this curb, discussing relationship problems or how he served as some dynamic equalizer to my rather mundane personality.
“You know,” he started awkwardly, glancing at me before settling his gaze onto his slim-fit slacks. “You’re really beautiful, regardless of your blood alcohol level.” I suddenly thought it was the funniest thing ever, his choice to dare wear a pair of slacks with a worn pair of Nikes. I’ve always liked those Nikes. “…and you’re hella distracted right now, but it’s cool.”
“What are you saying?” I sounded sort of accusatory. It was just awkward and all, him being my best friend. But at the same time, it was kind of exactly what I needed to hear.
“I know you hate this type of stuff… but I kind of love you, you know? You’re sort of amazing.” He sighed and looked away.
Cue the hand squeeze and suddenly I was crying. Hard.
“It’s been six years or so since we first met, but you’re not like the rest of them. You stayed by me, and I’m thankful. I’m not trying to give you a grand speech about how amazing you are, but you are. You’re the greatest friend I’ve ever had and I wish I didn’t wait until I was moving across the country to try and stupidly confess the love I’ve had for you forever now. I never thought I’d see the day, actually. I hope that you’ll forgive me for this, but please don’t cry.” He paused, scooting closer to me and wiping the stray mascara that was bleeding down my cheek. “I’ve seen you cry countless times over other guys, but please, not over me. I was kind of hoping that my little confession would’ve saved you the tears. You know, put a little optimism in you. Guess that didn’t work out…”
“So what now?” My voice cracked and I didn’t dare look at him.
“Well, I guess it’s too late now, whether you decide to tell me if you feel the same about me or not… but I guess all we can do is enjoy the time we have left together. Sorry.” He put his arm around me, best friend-style. “Didn’t mean to make things worse. Chin up, okay? We’ll always be best friends, and a couple thousand miles put between us isn’t going to change shit, aight?”
I nodded.
After a few minutes of shaking my shoulders to the rhythm of my sobs, I realized that this wasn’t how I wanted to spend my last moments with him.
So I took his advice, and held my chin up… and then I kissed him.
“I’ll come back.” He sealed his promise with another kiss.
A few minutes from now, we’ll probably be doing something more than kissing.
A few hours from now, he’ll be getting on a plane.
A few days from now, I’ll call him and we’d talk about how he liked his new home.
A few months from now, I’ll still willingly write him corny love letters about how I missed him while also discussing the latest zombie movie that has been released or old reruns of CSI.
A few years from now, who knows where we’ll be.
All I know is that I’ll still be waiting.
He slid his Zippo into my hand. Before we began kissing again, he said, “Hold onto this for me while I’m gone… because we’ll be needing this to light up a celebration bowl for just us two when I come back, just like old times. Promise you won’t use it until then.” I laughed at the thought. I wasn’t much of a smoker anyways, and was he really talking about old times as if we were really suddenly a thing of the past now? From that point on, we clung to each other tighter than the spandex material of my dress clung to my curves. And so we lay there on the curb in front of his house, kissing under the night sky, completely exposed to the rest of the neighborhood underneath the spot light of a street light, PDA all the way, no shame. It was sloppy. And it was beautiful.
Suddenly, his seventy-two year old neighbor slowly cruised down the street in his old Mustang making his way home at the end of the culdesac, not minding the crazy Last-Friday-Night looking couple on the curb, bumping a song almost as loud as the car’s engine. A familiar jingle that I’d heard at some point on every Valentine’s day and a song that my parents slow-danced to for the most part of my early childhood; “Unforgettable” by Nat King Cole.
+“Unforgettable
In every way,
And forever more
That’s how you’ll stay..That’s why, darling, its incredible
That someone so unforgettable…
Thinks that I am unforgettable too…”
“Can I buy you a coffee?”
He wore a Members Only jacket with a simple shirt underneath, skinny jeans and a withered pair of Authentics.
I laughed.
I’d seen girls get offered drinks at bars all the time on TV shows and at night clubs, but at a coffee shop?
He studied me then. Not a look of lust or with the desire to get in my high-waisted acid washed jeans but with a look of wonder, almost; the desire to get to know me better. His eyes breathed in my features carefully. I could see him taking note of my lightly waved hair, curls that had fallen since last night. I could see him eyeing my silk scarf, then nodding down to my combat boots and looking back up again at my black denim jacket with a single Disney pin of a baby Winnie the Pooh positioned right in the center of the left-breast pocket.
Then he laughed, and I suddenly felt embarrassed to have worn the damn thing.
I clutched four singles in my hand and he shook his head. “You won’t have enough for a cup of coffee… can I buy you one?”
I raised a brow and then looked back at the menu. There were plenty of items under four dollars.
“You won’t have enough for the usual.”
Typically, a girl would’ve felt the creepster heebie jeebies crawling up her spine at this very moment, but to be honest, I was impressed. My coffee did usually come out to be a little over five dollars after taxes. Expensive coffee, but always worth it and I only bought one type.
“I see you come in here every other day for the same cup of coffee. I’m usually in here doing homework; can’t really ever focus at home… the homies are always blazing back at the pad and the smell and the haze gets distracting after a while. I got you covered, don’t worry about it.”
I’m not going to lie, his smile was award-winning. He was quite charming.
After handing me my coffee, we chose a table that was closer to a private booth in the back of the shop. I asked him what had made him decide to buy me a coffee, and his answer was simple: “I’d finally found the perfect excuse to talk to you.”
I nodded and the conversation persisted. There were a few “awkward moments of silence,” however I’m not sure if they truly lived up to the name because each time we stopped speaking I just felt like smiling. In my mind I wondered if he would allow me to call him Prince, just because his charm was completely off the radar.
“Truth is, we knew each other a little over six years ago. We stopped talking for a while and I guess you forgot about me.”
It took me a while to process this. His look, his charm, this familiarity had become so clear to me now. It was him.
The boy that always opened my car door for me, even when I was driving. The boy that always pulled up a seat for me, bought me dinner just because he could, and left me “Sweet dreams,” as voicemails after a long night of partying. He had rolled the first blunt I ever smoked in my life for me. We had stopped talking so long ago for reasons I didn’t remember aside from the fact that I’d went off to college, and here he was, in the flesh. Back then, I’d wanted to give him a chance but I was heavily involved in an on-and-off serious relationship of my own.
Suddenly my cheeks were on fire. I was melting in my seat, suddenly aware of my outfit and my lazily applied makeup. How did I not recognize him in the shop each day I was here?
I still had all of the poetry, or should I call them “floetry” he had written for me taped onto various pages dated throughout my journal during the entirety of our friendship during high school. How could I have forgotten?
My recognition triggered a light in his eyes.
“It’s nice to speak with you again,” he said sweetly. He took a napkin and began scribbling onto it with a pen that seemingly came out of nowhere. He passed the tan-colored napkin to me.
I remember those beautiful eyes
That wondrous smile
Those sexy ass thighs I’d dreamed about during my middle school years—aha, just kidding
But truthfully, I’d been waiting, praying for God
To bless me with an opportunity when the time was right
And right is now
So if you’re alright with it,
I want to get to know you all over again, if you don’t mind.
I smiled. I’d tape this into my journal later, alongside the rest of his masterpieces and before the masterpieces soon to come.
+All I knew was how guilty I felt.
We’d been fighting for so long… for almost two months. Every conversation was made into a thorough argument, catalyzing yelling and tears and hurting and fears. The problem was that though both of us were screaming at each other, neither of us really said anything. We brought to light the problem but we sure as hell never tried to solve it.
Every night was a bout of shunning and more silence on the line, if the phone line was even active. Just heavy, angry breathing on your end and hard sniffles between the hot tears running down my face before the line went dead. This happened for nights at a time. No matter what I felt, the strongest was disappointment. I thought we were better than this.
Then he came along. He’d been in my life for a while now; the type that struck up conversation every now and then but never really went anywhere. Actually, I’m not sure if he came along or if I’d just gone to him… ran to him. I’m not sure what I was after, his pity or his heart? All I know was that he had been putty in my hands from the start… and I? I needed somewhere to go.
That night, he picked me up and we kicked it in his dorm. Mostly silence. I had just described to him the entire situation in the car, and now my tearducts were crusting with the hour-old tears from the drive. After about ten minutes of awkward silence, I went to the bathroom to wash my face. My eyes were bulging and red. So ugly. I went back into the room and he saw my face, a young girl ready to break and came to me… opened his arms.
I ran straight into them. I knew him well, if you considered “well” a couple of years with sparse conversations… but that night, I’d get to know him better.
—
After we had finished, he asked me if I was alright. I told him I was fine, but that didn’t stop a loose tear from escaping and gliding down my cheek. I hoped he didn’t notice… but then he wiped it away.
“You didn’t seem… into it.”
I was, I assured him. Just thinking… I feel so… guilty.
He took my hand and held it, then drove me home. He held my hand the whole way.
The sad part was that both he and I knew that you and I were still together, despite our recent arguments.
The worst part, though? You were there, waiting for me in my room when I came home… there was a new light in your eyes, that of sadness and hope. You apologized. Took me into your arms and told me that I was beautiful and that you would never hurt me again, you promise. You would treat me like a queen like I always deserved and tonight you’d prove it to me.
I cried.
We laid down together and you undressed me, kissing me so sweetly all over before going in. While you, so sweet, loving and remorseful were being so careful, taking me into your arms and making sure I knew that you loved me, I laid there hoping that you didn’t notice how unusually wet I was already… and I laid there hoping that you’d think it was because I was ready to accept your love so wholly when in truth I hadn’t gotten the chance to clean up before I reached you. I felt so disgusting, knowing that you took my tears as tears of forgiveness when I was crying because I felt so guilty.
Not one hour after I cheated on you and we made love. You didn’t even question where I was beforehand, who I was with, what I was doing. You just forgave me for everything… seemingly forgiving me for what you didn’t know, as well. I broke inside, then. The whole time we made love, all I could think was “You don’t deserve this. I don’t deserve you.” All I could feel was the fear racking my spine that you would find out someday.
But here I am, hoping, wishing that you’ll love me forever… and that you’ll never find out, because I know that you would never forgive me… and I can’t handle that. And here he is, driving past my bedroom window every other night, knowing that I forgot about him as fast as he came.
Guilty.
+Through the seasons.
Winter. The time for hot cocoas and all things cheery, with the exception that I was far from it and awfully lonely. Cuddle buddy anyone? Not for me, because I still felt played and betrayed by the boy I’d come across last fall. And I did fall, hard as hell for that matter. I was still licking my bruises and moping to the pitter-patter of the rain on my rooftops during those awful rainy days. I never really liked the cold, unless it meant hitting up Starbucks and getting myself a latte or chilling in bookstores for hours on end, trying to pass the time away until spring came. Cue Boy #1: tall dark and handsome. Not really my type, blonde-haired and blue eyed but we held interesting conversations, first stricken up by his question on where to find this book I’ve never read. I laughed and shook my head before he politely introduced himself. “Hello, my name is _____.” We exchanged numbers and before I knew it, we started kicked it on the regular, discussing his poetry and my knack for scrawling snippets of spoken word when the right moments of inspiration struck me and had shared a few moments under the stars and a few cuddling sessions. That is, until his girlfriend returned from college, the girlfriend he never mentioned, for her winter vacation. Asshole.
Spring. I suppose this is where things warm up (aha). He moved into the house next door. Tan skinned, nice build and great fashion sense. He was definitely the boy next door: polite and genuine with the etiquette of a prince. He was charming. His parents invited my family and I to their house warming and he took the liberty to introduce himself. We had that neighborly love: bland and boring, waving across the yards when we came back home from school. One day, he decided to trudge through his mom’s azaleas to truly talk to me. That day, we watched tons of horror movies and discussed them thoroughly. Our favorite parts, why which movie was good and which was horrible, and suddenly we were kissing. His mother walked in on us in search of her son, saw us, and was absolutely horrified. I guess I knew why. I mean, we were home alone, in the living room, doing things that, uhm, couples do… and she dragged him by the shirt back into their house and never invited me or my family to another one of their parties ever again. He was not allowed to speak to me, and I was not allowed to even walk in front of their house on their sidewalk without getting bitched at from the top window, blinds bent for peering eyes. Crazy Christian lady. She took his cellphone away and occasionally, I’d see him solemnly look out the window, smiling apologetically at me before his mother came into the room with a Bible and smacked him in the head with it for his “dirty deeds.” Not even two weeks after, I suppose his parents realized that they didn’t like the area and weren’t happy with their jobs after all, so they packed up and moved halfway across the country, back to where they first came from. He told me he’d write to me, but I saw his mom dispose of my address as soon as she found it. I didn’t get to give it to him again.
Summer. Oh, the hot, cruel days and the warm, steamy nights. He was 5’8” with a taste for cigars and driving extremely fast. He liked getting high most of his summer days, invited me to share a bowl every now and then but I politely refused. He never smelled like it, though, nor did his breath smell laced with the scent of wine-flavored cigars. We never got together. Hell, we never even kissed; just kinda sat semi-awkwardly in his car on our random day trips to find something cool to do during such scorching afternoons, pun intended. Told each other we’d go on an ice cream date but we never really got to. Semi-awkwardly, minus the occasional sweet laughs when we’d tease each other or when I’d playfully poke his side to distract him from driving. I heard he was into me as much as I was into him, but I never really got proof. By the time summer ended, he left the city, college bound and started anew. Started driving in the fast lane like he always wanted to, leaving our almost-summer love in the distance, perfectly visible in his rear view.
Fall. School was back in session. I was tired of the lack of progression in terms of relationships, so I decided to fall back. All of the confusion almost gave me a heart attack. Weeks went by and I just floated around. The semester was coming to an end, so I decided it was time to bust my ass and hit the books. I grabbed myself a cup of coffee and headed out the door, book store bound. There I found him, chillin’ and reading one of my favorite novels. I pressed my lips together and nodded, impressed, then headed over to my favorite section to find a book of my own. Little did I know, I wasn’t alone. “Hello.” His voice was like warm milk, if that’s even possible. Had chills running down to my toes and back up to my cuticles. Well, up until I realized this was déjà vu of what happened last winter, so I made a sort of withdrawn response in response to that mental splinter. He sensed my discomfort and made a half smile before recommending to me a book. Perks of a Wallflower. BAM. Holy shit, am I in love? But I took the book and pretended that I’d never read it and we conversed about it for a long time, him talking about why I would love it based on the book I had in hand. Something bloomed between us then. The crunchy golden leaves outside and the chilly weather made for perfect coffee dates and study sessions. I helped him in literature, he aided me in government, but to be honest, I could feel nothing but chemistry.
So we settled. Fall was when we began, and ironic, I fell hardest for him. Now we’re happy and deeply in love, and we’re going to continue to love each other through the seasons.
+