Dela Rosa, Rebekah Charm G.
I have hated you for the longest time, Hiraya. The reason is still unclear. Maybe it is because the only times I remember you were bad encounters. It could be that time when you made fun of my art in 7th grade which ruined my perception of my craft, or when my mom died of cancer and yours was her resident doctor. Though you barely have contact with her, it still bothered me. Your faces were remarkably similar in my defense. It could also be insecurity, the way you are always talking with everyone in classes like it was the most important thing in the world—socializing, the only thing I hate more than you. But whenever we talked, it would always be about something that would trigger me. You like long talks and deep conversations; I like peaceful silence and short awkward exchanges that were enough not to be labeled as disrespectful.
Despite these unfortunate encounters, I did not loath you the day I saw you in the emergency room that one night. It appeared that you were waiting for someone to attend to you, or maybe your dad took care of that and that is why he left you in the waiting area. I looked away then looked again to avoid seeming like a creep, I also tried if my hatred would come back after a second look. However, it did not. It could be that The Beatles shirt you had on, even though you picked on me for liking that band—accusing me of being a wanna-be-hipster. Maybe it was the way you sat restless in that metal chair. You still looked like that girl who had so much to say in high school, but your eyes were different. Your eyes gave up.
When I met you, we were in 7th grade. You already knew which president should be elected and which one would win even though the debates just aired. I could not describe how annoyed I was. It was just the way you never lost a debate or even everyday arguments that made you seem so impossible. I stutter on greetings, yet there are people like you who talk for hours. And you still have the guts to rant about your self-esteem issues on Twitter, you are unbelievable. I always thought of why you couldn’t just be content for being an extrovert. This world was made for extroverts like you, not for people like me. I should’ve been the one ranting on Twitter to death.
As the nurse started to escort you, I had a feeling I would meet you again. I knew you were going to make another one of those unnecessary exchanges. You all were walking towards my direction, of course, you’re going to be escorted to the bed next to mine. I am not certain with other things, but with this, I was. And I was not wrong either.
“Nick.” You said. Surprisingly, I didn’t hate it at all. Maybe it’s because I haven’t seen you for so long. I looked at you and you had a sly smile. “Hiraya.” I said. I gave you a quick nod, then I looked away. You chuckled. “You haven’t changed a bit.” You add. What did you even mean? Is it the way I looked? Was it my mannerisms? I shook my thoughts away asking you what you were doing in the hospital. “I’ve been passing out and vomiting my brains out. I don’t know what’s up with me yet.” You said. You’re always straightforward. You continue, “It sucks. I was gonna see Ely Buendia live next week but look at what stupid crap I have to put up with.”
“I’m having surgery tomorrow. I mean, hopefully, tomorrow’s good.”
Your eyes widened. They were still beautiful—your eyes. Your eyelids’ folds grew a bit more though. And yes, you had really beautiful eyes. It was not the only thing beautiful about you though. You once made this beautiful speech for History in 8th grade, your eyes were burning as you ran your mouth on colonialism. Your hands were beautiful too, I reaffirmed that as you tucked your hair behind your ear, apologizing for my state.
Of course, I tell you it’s fine. You had nothing to do with it, you didn’t know anything. You didn’t know my dad didn’t want to push this through because it’s what killed my mom and my other relatives. I still wanted to do the surgery. ‘It’s just a stage one tumor anyway’, I keep telling myself. Besides, it’s true. We all are going to die at some point, this surgery just has the probability of extending me like a text subscription. And what’s the point of wanting a life if you won’t fight for it?
“Tomorrow night is available.” My resident doctor says after a day of meeting you again. I got transferred to a room and so were you, but I still did not know then. Our awkward silence is disrupted by what appeared to be a distressed woman coming from the hall. A nurse enters to assist my doctor and take note of our confirmation. My doctor, later on, asks the nurse what the fuss was all about. They quietly converse but not quiet enough for me not to hear.
“Oh, that’s Dr. Palma. Her daughter just got diagnosed with Brain Aneurysm.”
“What? Unbelievable. Ella and Anna are just grade-schoolers.”
“No, no. Daughter from her first husband.”
I could not believe what I just heard. You. You were diagnosed with a Brain Aneurysm. Someone like you? I could not have thought. People like you are those characters that either overthrow a corrupt government or become a superstar at the end of a story. But this is real life and in real life, you were diagnosed with a Brain Aneurysm.
That night, all I could think of was the confirmation that you were in fact human. You weren’t a super-being; you weren’t a character in a story. At that moment, maybe you did feel vulnerable too, I thought. What if your strong personality was because of your parents’ separation? Maybe I didn’t understand you enough. I loathed myself for loathing you—you’re just another person after all. I’m not a deity to judge you for your actions nor am I someone who could cure you. Yet I hit you up that night as if I were a supreme being. As if I could cure you.
I open an overused messenger application to contact you. I asked the most stupid question.
I hated myself so much. What was I thinking? Yet it seemed to be the right move, you replied quickly.
Nope. Still a bad idea and a stupid question.
“I’m so sorry.” I replied.
“I’m gonna die. I don’t have any music downloaded on this phone. I have them on my other phone! God, I’m really stupid, aren’t I? Haha.”
You really are unbelievable. What is more unbelievable is the favor you asked of me. You asked me to record myself singing. You even brought up our video for CLE in 9th grade where we had to make a video of us singing a gospel song and everyone noticed my voice. “Too bad you’re not at home. You could’ve accompanied yourself with a guitar too.” You add, teasing me about learning Magbalik’s song intro at school. What’s even more unbelievable was that I did the favor you asked me of.
You were human, I remembered. You were a human who was diagnosed with Aneurysm, and I asked you the most stupid question. How could I turn you down? You just wanted to hear ‘Eighteen’ by One Direction through a voicemail of someone who listens to a completely different genre. But we’re both 18, and everyone who turns 18 knows that song. You continue to say you only have a year to find someone and make that the anthem of your wedding in a few years. The unbelievability of that night continues as you compliment me. Not a single mockery. You thank me and say goodnight. I say it back.
My surgery was a success. As I said, it was only stage one anyway. It was definitely worth the risk. That time, I wondered if you went through surgery or if you even still had that on the table. You’re still young yet you have this disease limiting you from living a life like how a One Direction fan would want. So curious, I decide to visit you a day after I got discharged.
I wish I didn’t visit you. You told me you weren’t having surgery because it wasn’t worth the risk. You proceeded to tell me you plan on donating your organs. We all know what that meant. You have accepted your death. I wish I didn’t visit you because it made me realize why I truly did hate you. In 4th year of junior high school, you told me you were leaving for senior high. I had this feeling I did not like, a wave of loneliness just crashed onto me. I felt like I was drowning. You were leaving, I did not like that. Because at that moment, and I didn’t know, I already liked you.
But you left for senior high school, I couldn’t blame you. We were in the same institution from grade school to junior high school and we could attest to its poor performance. That’s why we were always in the same class because no one went there unless you’re from that area and it’s the nearest school. That was our case. So you left, I guess I hated you ever since.
“Hey, could you come back tomorrow and bring your guitar with you?” You shook away my thoughts as you gave me a request. Let me tell you, a request is harder to turn down in person. It would always be hard to say ‘no’ while looking at your eyes. So I come back and visit every time you ask me to.
Your songs were the soundtrack of my day and night. In the night, I would practice the song you asked for like it’s my very last gig ever. In the day, I still get nervous like it’s my first time singing to you. We were classmates so that means that you have heard me play and I’ve jammed with you all more than I could remember. Yet I’m still nervous every time I go into your room to visit. I’m thankful that you made efforts to make me feel comfortable. Like how you tell me to visit when your dad’s gone or when your friends aren’t over because you’d know how uncomfortable it makes me feel. It must be the time that we’ve already spent together. But now, our time is limited.
There was this one time I fell asleep waiting for you to wake up. As soon as I woke up, I saw you just starring at me. We smiled at each other and you looked so beautiful. I was about to get my guitar, but you held my hand stopping my tracks as if you wanted us to stay like that longer. But I understood your touch, it meant we won’t have moments like these anymore anytime soon. There won’t be a future with us waking up next to each other, because one day you won’t ever wake up again.
Our smiles fade, you understood as well.
“Not that it counts now, but I like you.” You said.
“It counts. I’ve liked you for the longest time.” I answered.
You were way ahead of your time. Literally. It’s not just how you told me before that you had to grow up immediately to cope with your mom leaving both you and your dad, it’s also the fact that you told me you only have a week left. It made me upset.
“Why can’t you just fight it?”
“There’s no chance, Nick. I won’t risk it.”
“Why? Don’t you want a future? Suddenly it’s alright for you to just stop living?”
You paused for a moment and then answered, “Do you know who’ll get my kidneys? She’s a single mother. She lives off of contractual work and her 3-year-old daughter will go to school this year, My heart goes to this kid who will be having heart failure, they told me all about him. He has imaginary friends. I used to have those. I hope my eyes go to this sixteen-year-old though, she’s still not sure but I hope she says yes.”
“If I risk it, my death won’t mean anything.” You said. “My whole life, I’ve been for the people. Believing in advocacies and in serving the people. But I’ve done nothing. I’ve been all talk, Nick. But now, I have the chance to save more lives. Do you how much that means to me? My death will actually mean something. I might’ve actually answered the Trolley Problem.” We both chuckle at your last statement. I nod trying to be understanding and hide the way I was so selfish that time for wanting to keep you from doing your most selfless act.
I eventually meet your friends and your dad. They were alright. All I wished for was that you stayed just as alive as we were.
On the day before you go away, I stayed with you until sunset. Of course, you had to spend the night and your last day with your dad. “If I had tomorrow with you, I’d bring you to this place in Baguio where I went to every year when my mom was still alive,” I said. “We didn’t even get to try Tiktok.” You say and I chuckle. “I wish I had more time with you, I would’ve brought you everywhere so that everything would remind you of me.” You said. “I’ll remember you. I’d go to our high school every time just to remember you. Hell, I’ll remember you even in my room trying to sleep because I can’t forget you.” Needless to say, we both wish we had more time.
“Hiraya, It’s too soon to say, but I’ll never get to say it anyway.” I said. “I don’t know what love is, I’m still trying to figure it out. But if I had to define it on my own, I’d say that you’re my very own kind of love.” I said. “I love you too.” You respond. Whether we mean it or not, it doesn’t change anything. We both won’t get to say it to each other ever again. And if this is love, if I actually do love you, it still doesn’t change the fact that you’ll be gone tomorrow.
Tomorrow came, so did the next day after that, the next month, and the next year. You forgave your mom. You said goodbye to your dad. You put other people first. You leave me again. You haven’t changed a bit, Hira. Because of your broken pieces, many were mended. I know I’ve hated you for the longest time, but I’ve loved you in our short time together and more. Also, I get to say I’ve loved you since we were Eighteen.
