i remember when you suggested we cook dinner together, i didn’t think much of it.

we danced around your kitchen you chopped onions, i diced the potatoes, an effortless synchronization.

“are you ready to go back,” i asked, tossing ingredients into the fire before i stepped into my own.

when i was fifteen, i thought scary was this dressed-up zombie putting his arm  around me as i crawled through a haunted mansion.

at twenty five, i know scary as the thought that creeps up at night of what we could’ve been, and who you are now with her. 

she blinked, startled that he even answered. 

“what would you paint with just blue ink?” she asked softly, propping her head up with her arm. he stared at her, and finally answered, “oranges.” he watched as her eyes transformed from the initial shock to the spark of realization. wrinkles decorated the sides as a grin broke from her lips. 

she laughed. 

she laughed and the sound was beautiful to him that his ears were ringing. he felt intoxicated and all he wanted to do was breathe in whatever it was that she exhaled because it was too precious to be released into the world, and then to nothing. he sealed his lips against hers and drank what he could, transforming her laugh into something heavy and bright inside of him until a chuckle escaped his own mouth. 

he had never known this about her when they were dating; it only manifested after she started staying over on a frequent basis. to this night, it continues to startle him, albeit they have been together for the better half of a year now. he speculates if his surprise comes from their lack of established routine - since they were still new to the living arrangements, their nights rang sporadically between relaxed cuddling and watching TV, to ravaging physical intimacy, to bringing work into bed. the latter happens more to him than to her due to the nature of their individual professions, and as he searches through his e-mails and stitches together documents, she would be buried in a book. 

on those nights, he would climb into bed with his laptop, and squeeze in-between her face and the book for a kiss before he began his work. he was envious that she could read luxuriously, and at moments he would never admit out loud, annoyed when she would giggle from behind the pages. but it was the moments when he heard a sniffle that instantly caused him alarm, forcing him to look away from his work and search her face. she wouldn’t see him at first, as in the moment, she is consumed by the written words and how they have latched on to her emotions. he could see in her eyes, which have been magnified by brimming tears, that she has disappeared into her novel and was engulfed at whatever just happened. then in a split second, startling him a second time, she would blink and breathe, putting the book down and looking at him as if she noticed him for the first time. 

“what is it?” she would ask, smiling at him as she wiped her eyes. usually, he would shrug and kiss her again before resuming back to his work, but one night, he decided against it. he closed his laptop when she asked him, and rested it on the night stand beside him. he moved close to her, and she rearranged her body to fit over his arm. 

“why are you crying?” she gave a meek laugh, and waved her hand. “it’s silly,” she said, but he pressed on. “tell me.” she smiled softly, opening her book. “i don’t know how to explain it. sometimes the author writes it perfectly - exactly what i’m thinking. they just managed to put it into words.” she looked at him, searching his face to see if he understood. he kissed her forehead. “will you read to me?” her eyes sparked. they were surprised, and uncertain, but they creased upwards to show joy. she nodded, and snuggled deeper into his body before opening the book.

he closed his eyes as he listened to her voice awaken the words on the page. it was different from what he was used to - she read with a soft confidence that only shook with slight timbre over the exceptional paragraphs that stood out for her. it was so bizarre to him - he was stepping into this book in the middle, with no idea of the plot, the setting, or any relationship with a character, but in the way she read, he found a new appreciation for the woman in his arms, and the relationship they were building. 

after a while, his mind had been lulled between her soft voice, and the images painted by the words she read. he heard nothing else but that, and the occasional turning of paper, and he couldn’t gage how long she had been reading. “i love you,” he murmured into her hair, and the sudden shift in his arms forced him to realize what he had just said. immediately his heart pounded, and he quickly thought to keep his eyes closed. he could feel her staring at him, and he decided to breathe a little heavier to make it more convincing. he felt her shake him, calling his name as she did, and he pretended to wake up groggily, smiling at her as he opened his eyes.

1. spit it into her voicemail, a little slurred and sounding like the shot whiskey you downed for courage. feel as ashamed as you do walking into work in last night’s clothes. wake up cringing for days, waiting for her to mention it. [source.]

++++++

at the point of last call, there are usually only a handful of people left at the bar - even less when it’s the hotel bar. he ordered his final shot of whiskey, and asked to settle his tab. while the bartender poured and walked away to get his receipt, he surveyed the room for the company he was currently keeping. for the first time that night, he noticed his surroundings aside from the person serving his drinks. in the left corner of his eye, he could see a couple sharing drawled kisses, only to pause to take more shots of tequila. on the opposite side, a middle-aged woman sat nursing a beer, still dressed in the hotel’s maid outfit. finally, sitting two seats away from him, was an older man wearing a baggy grey suit. his tie was tucked away in his pocket, and the top three buttons of his shirt were undone. the man caught his eye, and raised his glass of what could have been whiskey or scotch. he nodded back, and swallowed his own liquor before walking out of the bar. 

the lights of the lobby were dimmed, but when the elevator doors opened, his eyes stung at the sudden brightness. for a minute, he thought he had seen heaven, but when his vision adjusted, he saw in his reflection of the elevator’s mirrored walls that he looked like hell. he thought back to that man at the bar. was that his future? he ran his hand through his unruly black hair, and straightened his tie as the doors swung open to his floor. as he walked to his room, he shrugged off his navy blue blazer, fumbling for the hotel key and his phone in the breast pockets. 

he didn’t turn on the lights when he entered his room; he slipped off his shoes by the door, and dropped his keys and jacket on the nightstand before plunging head first into his bed. he had done this exact routine four hours ago, expecting to fall asleep immediately, but his mind did not necessarily agree with his tired body. he tossed and tumbled for a good hour before he gave up, and decided to get a drink downstairs.

his brain now was very liquored up, and his body had given up on even pulling the covers over himself. thoughts, however, still haunted his mind as he wondered if the maid at the bar was the same person who made his bed this afternoon. this then shifted to the couple huddled at the corner of the bar - he felt a pang of envy. he let out a loud groan as he forced his body to shift to the side. patting around the nightstand, he felt his hands wrap around a thin block and brought it to his face. the light from the phone stung his eyes, just like the elevator did, but when his eyes adjusted this time, he was actually looking into heaven. 

he saw her face peaking out of one of her ridiculously giant scarves and hat - her eyes laughing and her lips in a huge grin. even though he was only staring at the wallpaper of his phone, he felt his heart beat a little faster. this wasn’t the alcohol’s doing - it was her. she has kept him up these past few nights; his mind has racing with mixed emotions as he flew across the country for a business meeting. as he stared on at his phone, he noticed for the first time that night that he had a voicemail. she had called when he was at the bar. he slowly dialed in, and hit speakerphone. her voice filled the empty room.

“hi boo - i just wanted to call you and tell you that i miss you! i think you might still be out with your clients right now, but i want to go to sleep early so i won’t be late to pick you up tomorrow! i will make sure to track your flight in case anything happens and i have to find you in the middle of the ocean. be safe! good night!” 

a smile spread across his face as he repeated the message just to hear her voice again. his fingers instinctively responded to the automated message, “press 7 to return the sender’s call.” his heart was pounding as the phone began to ring. what was he doing? it was now 4:37 AM - she is definitely out like a light. but he let the phone ring until - “hi, i’m sorry i missed your call but leave me a message and i’ll get back to you!“ 

hearing her voice again filled his heart up, and he breathed heavily. ”hey babe, i’m sorry i missed your call.” pause. “i miss you, too.” pause. “i know i’m calling you really late - i haven’t really been able to sleep. i don’t know why.” the next pause was longer as his breathing slowed down. his eyes felt heavy, and the phone in his hand felt heavier. “i can’t wait to see you tomorrow.” he put the phone on his chest, not thinking that she could probably hear the thumping of his heart against his rib cage. “i love you." 

+

he was the last one to board off the plane. while other passengers shoved and pushed each other to exit, he stayed frozen in his seat, half still praying that their plane malfunctioned and it never left the airport. he could feel his heart thrashing against his rib cage, so hard that it really did hurt, as he slowly walked through the terminal toward the exit. with every step, he recalled the events that happened just a few hours ago.

he had woken up abruptly to a sharp headache, and it took him a minute to realize the jarring noise was the alarm clock rather than his eardrums. looking at his phone, it took him a minute to realize he was late for his flight. it almost didn’t matter - he felt as if he had the best night of sleep in a long time. he didn’t bother to change - he just threw everything into his garment bag and suitcase before dashing into the bathroom. he looked at himself for the first time - his black hair still coated with the pomade, a stubby shadow appearing around his lips and chin, dark circles around his tired eyes, and a rumpled dress shirt half tucked into wrinkled pants. was this the first sight she would see of him? his eyes widened as the first thought of her crept through his mind. he vaguely remembered calling her last night - but what did he say? he raked his brain as he ran a hand through his hair and straightened out his clothes. he was in the middle of brushing his teeth when realization crashed into him, dropping his toothbrush along the way. he had told her he loved her. 

a sour taste ran through his mouth that covered the mint flavor. he could hear his phone ringing in his bedroom - probably the taxi service waiting for him downstairs - but he couldn’t move. he had told her that he loved her. 

he was now approaching the escalator. he knew she was waiting for him at the bottom. as he stepped on, he pondered why he did. he was at an airport! he could’ve just ran to another terminal and hopped on another flight somewhere far away. he could easily start a new life as a fitness trainer, or a soccer player. these thoughts shot through him as he descended the stairs, faster than his heart pumping the blood through his body. he spotted her in an instant, and he watched for a moment as her head was still bopping around, trying to see him. when their eyes finally locked, a smile swept her face to her eyes, and for the second time in the past 24 hours, he felt at peace. she charged at him when he stepped off the escalator, and he had to awkwardly waddle them both to the side so that other passengers can greet their loved owns. in their own space, he set his luggage down and embraced her. “i missed you,” she said, her speech muffled from her face buried in her jacket. she looked up at him, her brown eyes glazed with tears. he kissed her, and felt his heart speed up again as thoughts from this morning flooded his mind. “ready to go home?” he asked when she finally loosened her grip of him. she nodded, still hidden under his arm.

sometimes, all it takes, is one night. one night for things to change. one night for the whole world to come undone. could it be karma? i never believed in such silly things; or rather - i never believed in anything. is that what made me so reckless? to never believe in rules, in fate, in consequences. answering that question has never left me so speechless. maybe, it was karma after all. it was dark that night - the eerie lampposts were on and the alleyways were pitch black. i was stumbling, wounds fresh on my heart and scars clean on my arms. i needed a drink to numb the pain - either physical or emotional would’ve been fine (one always took care of the other one.) with a couple of wrinkled bills left in my pocket, i stepped into the nearest bar on my right, hoping for a quick fix, but little did i know, it was more than i could ever repay. i didn’t need to adjust to any florescent lighting - the room was dark with random red bulbs as empty broken chairs decorated the whole desolate place. i could’ve been disgusted, but i was in no position to complain as i took a seat in the darkest corner. my ears perked up when i heard an echoed cough and my tired eyes looked up, cautious. to my surprise, a boy in wrinkled jeans, and an even more wrinkled shirt, stared back at me from the dimly lit stage. he coughed again, and looked away, reaching for his guitar and twisting the knobs on his amp. maybe he didn’t see me after all. he lifted his lips to the mic positioned in front of him, and a low croon escaped his body as his fingers brushed the glossy instrument. the spell was cast. my heart shot up my throat and all past battles were forgotten, erased by his voice. i never knew how long it lasted, but for those few moments, it was just us two and his guitar - both our past and future gone. was it magic? i never believed in magic. but then, what other words could describe it? he sang his last note, and played his last chord, openning his eyes to reveal soft blue staring at me. oxygen strangled my lungs at that point, and i used the remainder of my strength to look away, bewildered at the emotion rushing through me. minutes that felt like hours past, or perhaps they were hours after all. there was a reason why not many bars have windows - it’s to keep their customers from knowing time, like an eternal prison, or an eternal escape. a sudden movement startled me as i looked to my left. there he sat, waving the bartender over before looking down at me. he smirked, wrinkles forming beside his eyes, and i noticed that he looked my age. was there a certain age for people to be singing in isolated bars and stumbling through alleyways in the middle of the night? there must have been, because here we both sat. he was first to speak: “can i get you something to drink?” it was a cheap shot, but i was desperate, so i replied my request. his voice was just as low as it was when he sang, but there was a consistancy that left it close to seduction. and that’s how it happened. isn’t that what always happens? one drink too many, and too many blurry sparks flying. that always seems like the perfect concoction for slow dancing and tangled bedsheets. life continued on for a while in the same manner. he had my heart in his guitar strings. he had my soul in the words he was crooning. even in a crowded show, it felt like just us two. in his room, it really was only us two. his music held beliefs that i never knew. there was sadness, but contentment and fairy tales too. he sang and it filled my wounds; he would play and stitch up every scar that could appear. he would say that it was karma that brought us together. i suppose he’d say karma tore us apart too. to believe in karma is to understand it’s a bitch. what it’ll give you, it can take away. and just like that, he was gone. he sang his last song, he played his last tune, he packed up his love, and left under the full moon. there was something better out there for him, he started believing. there was someone better out there for me, he started to say. i knew i was never his inspiration, and my heart never had the strings he wanted to play. so he cut them and left for something new to believe in, and i was stuck to believe in karma again.

The world is full of surprises; I believe that. In every moment, in every sidewalk, in every breath. Sometimes it could be some loose change dropped by a stranger, and other times, it can be a blooming flower within the cracks of cement rubble.  It can even be a kiss from an unexpected love.

For me, it was him.

____________________________________________________________

I was never the most punctual girl in the world when it came to buses, or anything else for that matter, but he changed all of that. Every morning, he was there without fail at 9:18 a.m., waiting for the 9:26 a.m. bus. Even the buses weren’t as prompt as him.

There he stood, rain or shine in simple black loafers, a pair of slacks and a shirt. Depending on the weather, sometimes he would dress down and wear a t-shirt. Other times, he would dress up and wear a button-down shirt. When it rained, he would wear a black trench coat with the collar popped up to his ears. But whatever he wore, it was always accompanied by this silver watch. Maybe it was the reason why he was never late; I knew he was the reason why I was never late again.

We never spoke, but I’m sure we built up some familiarity without any exchange of words. On the days where I was running behind, and the bus was already across the street, he would take his time getting on, allowing me to catch up. And on the very rare occasion where the bus was early and he was just down the block, I would return the favor. It was a mutual relationship between two strangers bounded by public transportation. We would never sit near each other, as our bus stop was early on the route and there was always just too much room. Him with his newspaper, me with my headphones. When we would get off at the last stop, we would head our separate ways, but we would always meet the next morning to repeat our routine all over again.

A lot of the times, I would find myself thinking about him and his life as he stood next to me. I wondered about the basics, like his name, his age, where he was going every morning, why he was never late. Sometimes it would go as far as if he had a girlfriend, was he married, did he have kids, and why I was even thinking about such things. But then sometimes when I would glance over to sneak a peek at him, I would catch him just looking away and that would set me off again. Most often, I’d just wonder why he hasn’t said anything yet, but I guess it would be the same reason why I didn’t either.

It was strange how he seemed to materialize out of nowhere, but I suppose that’s how surprises work most of the time. It was the first day of spring, and my usual empty bus stop was surprisingly crowded with a handful of people. Standing away from the group, he leaned stiffly against the fence with a black briefcase in one hand. Every so often, he would look nervously at his wrist, his silver watch catching the sunshine easily with its modest, but expensive, design. After that day, it thinned out to only the two of us, and it continued like that for about two months without fail – until one day.

One day, he wasn’t there. That day was probably the biggest out of all the surprises. I was in a rush again to catch that 9:26 a.m. bus, forgetting my umbrella as I ran out. Soft rumbles were already growling above me as the gloomy, grey sky showed no mercy to the sunshine behind it, but I ignored it and kept walking. All I wanted to do was see him, standing there patiently for the bus. But as I made my way out the door and down to the corner of my street, I only saw the lone bus stop sign waiting for me. My heart beat frantically as I crossed, hoping these were just one of those almost never moments where I beat him. After numerous foot taps and self-induced control, I finally checked my phone for the time. It was 9:29 a.m. – both him and the bus were late. I tried to reason with myself that he obviously had other obligations than to accompany a stranger and wait for the bus. Maybe he was sick. Maybe he was called away for a trip. Maybe he drove.

Or maybe the bus came early and he left without me.

Whatever the explanation was, I’m sure it was reasonable. However, my disappointment did not subside.

It was weird – we never exchanged words, just smiles and gestures of courtesy to go first on the bus, but I felt more connected to him than some of the acquaintances I’ve had encounters with my whole life. Scolding myself for being so ridiculous, I didn’t realize the clouds hovering above me until it was too late. A large splash of water splattered on my head, pulling me out of my thoughts to look up. Another fell on my arm and it was stead fast raindrops from there. Frantically rummaging my bag, I remembered I forgot my umbrella at home and cursed myself. There was no way I could miss this bus, or else I’d definitely be late for my senior seminar. I can see my professor already, shaking his balding head with disappointment. Pushing my dark hair back, I squinted through the curtain of water to see if my bus decided to come yet. No such luck.

Suddenly, the rain stopped.

Startled, I turned around to see him standing beside me, holding his black umbrella over me. Dressed the part, he wore his rainy day trench coat with a stripped dress shirt peaking out and his shiny silver watch hanging loosely on the arm that held the umbrella. Looking up closely at his face for the first time, I realized he couldn’t be more than a couple of years older than me – in his mid-twenties tops – and he wore a causal smile that matched the laughter in his amber eyes. Dawning on me that I was staring, I quickly looked away and blushed, muttering a “thanks.” He stood quietly beside me, making my heart race at how close he was.

Finally, I caved.

The worst thing that could happen would be that I can’t take this bus anymore, right?

Taking a breath, I looked back at him with my hand outstretched and introduced myself. Genuinely surprised, he looked at me for a second before grinning and giving me his hand.

“Brandon,” he replied. Brandon. I guess the rest was history.

We got on the bus that day and sat beside each other. Ironically, it was crowded for once from the rain and the delayed schedule - not that we were complaining. I found out that he just moved here after getting accepted to an internship in a local finance firm – and somehow, that his favorite ice cream flavor was strawberry with chocolate sprinkles. By the time we got off to go our separate ways, a date was already made for ice cream sometime.

And of course, to see each other again the next morning at the bus stop.

when he grinned, it was like this bright yellow sunshine, streaming through an orange summer day. and when he was angry, he would growl and get fierce, like yellow lightening striking through the earth, shaking the very core of the still blue hues.

sometimes, when he was calm, he would be this pale yellow from my red lamp, soft and dim against the creamy white walls. but when he was awake, he would return to the electric yellow of taxi cabs, that always painted the black city streets. i could spill my crayons, and none could match better, than the simplicity of this mundane shade: unmellow yellow – his perfect color.

writing is a quiet talent. it may not be pleasant to the ears, for there are those who read out loud and may stutter and stumble over the words. it may not be beautiful to the eyes, for there are those who must squint, or magnify, to clear the blurry print. the pages may feel rough against delicate fingerprints, and there is a smell of fading paper from a thousand pasts. it is not a boastful talent that requires film, feather boas or a large cast and crew. there is no need for an orchestra full of windpipes, strings and an angel's voice to sing, nor is there a use for any color other than the absolute black scurrying silently across the white canvas. it is a tiring art, marked up with millions of brush strokes, strike out lines, white-out marks - only to create nothing but perhaps meerly an idea. or a simple sentence. or a simple word... but the perfect word. it is a puzzling art - almost mysterious - that requires time, practice and sacrafice. to write is to sacrafice one's pride, and expose oneself to the raw emotion of toppling reveries. to practice fitting together the selection of words that click perfectly into one's musings. to provide time for those thoughts screaming to be placed together. just how one sings because voices leak out of lips; one paints because hands find brushes and puddles of dripping color; one plays because strings entertwine with their fingers; one films because eyes wander for better futures - one writes because we must. we as writers have no film, no music, no color, no voices.  there is only the movement of pages turning. there is only the whisper of dialogue within our characters. there is only the imprint of ebony ink against ivory sheets. there is only the silence within our written voices. writing is a quiet talent, but when reading between the lines, it will be understood how loud it can be.

come home - you have been abandoned for so long.

there was silence. it was as if the entire world was held still, holding its breath for something extraordinary to arrive. it was as if all six billion seven hundred seventy two million two hundred and two thousand seven hundred and ninteen people had suddenly froze under a shield of solitude, and only she contained the ability to penetrate such a force field. lying on her bed, she blinked. she could not hear the summer air brushing through her evergreen trees. she no longer felt the pressure of movement within her city streets. one arm was discarded limply off her mattress covered with pale yellow sheets. if it wasn't for her other hand resting convienently on her rising and falling stomach, she would've sworn she had died herself. instead, her dark eyes rolled over on all the pictures plastered against her cream white walls. there were faces that grinned back at her, scenery that seemed painted rather than photographed, and trinkets collected from all the disappearing years of the past. memories exploded before her as she gazed through each four by six rectangle, transporting her for brief moments before shifting back to her current stage of stillness. did she feel happiness when she took that photo? was she truely laughing in this one? what had happen that day to make her face glow that way? she did not remember, and she never will remember. who were these people? she did not know anymore. her heart crumbled. to that, movement occurred. the long fingers of her discarded arm twitched - it was her only reaction to the disintegration. she knew inside that her heart had shattered, but she was not surprised. there is a certain numbness to the idea of abandonment, to the realization of absolute lonlieness. a numbness where one would be used to, and would be consumed by it. and she was. she was engulfed by this idea of being deserted and isolated, to be left to fend for herself against a world of nearly seven billion people. she was suffocated to believe that no one was there amongst the billions to protect her against all odds. she was abandoned; the world for her will always be silent.