On Seeing His Photographs (Every Now And Then)

I look at his photographs every now and then. Some of him alone, his eyes looking at the camera, a somewhat serious expression on his face; some of him with his new friends, his eyes crinkling with fun that I wouldn’t know; some of him with his new love (or old love? first love? everlasting love?), the end of his lips showing the smallest trace of a smile. Endless photographs that all look new to me; photographs without me in it.

Sometimes I think I’m becoming quite a masochist for doing this to myself. Why do I continue to look at his face, when the mere thought of him would send a small ache in my chest—a small, teeny, tiny ache, but an ache nonetheless—that I would sometimes forget how to breathe? Why do I keep doing such things, if all it would ever do is force me back into my 13-, 14-, 15-year-old self, back to a time when he mattered and very little of anything else?

It seems stupid to carry on with this little habit, but I still do. I look at his pictures every now and then, perhaps to remind me that once upon a time, I liked him—a lot—to a point that I would pray and cry for him to be mine, mine, mine, that I would cherish even the pen he used (a black PaperMate), take note of his favorite player in some sport (Green, #5, the geeky-looking one), and even remember all these tiny little details about him to the point of obsession (that he ruffles his hair every so often, that his dimples show even with the slightest smile, that his handwriting is a little chubby, just like him).

Obsession. Yes, that just might be it. I don’t think I ever loved him—I just thought I did. It was never about love; I hardly ever even knew him. He had a lot of faults and I noticed much of his, but aside from what I saw on the surface, I didn’t know him any better than everyone else. Perhaps I liked the image of him that I had in mind, but in reality I might have hated him. For not being like what I imagined him to be. For being ahead when (I think) I was smarter than him. For not noticing me, when all the while I took constant notice of him.

But still I look at his photographs. Every now and then, no matter how much I try not to. I still look at his photographs.

Conversation

“Let’s talk about past loves.”

“Pass.”

“Why don’t you want to talk about it?”

“I said, pass. I pass.”

“I don’t accept your pass today. Talk about your past love.”

“None. There. Happy?”

“None? Impossible.”

“Are you mocking me?”

“No. I’m asking you. I’m sure you’ve had some prior experience.”

“What makes you think that?”

“I don’t know. Well…you’re already twenty years old—that’s two decades—”

“You are mocking me.”

“I wasn’t, and I’m not. Seriously. No first loves, first kisses, first fight…?”

“If you’re talking about reciprocated love, then none.”

“None?”

“None. No one’s liked me enough to love me back.”

“But I’m sure there’s someone who told you they liked you. Right?”

“Well, yeah. But that’s different, because it just so happened that I don’t like that person back.”

“Well then, tell me about your first love then, even if it wasn’t really…”

“Reciprocated.”

“Right. Yeah.”

“Well, I liked this guy who I thought likes me back. Turns out he likes my friend, not me.”

“And?”

“That’s it. What, you want me to say that I stole that guy away from my friend?”

“No. Did your friend like him back?”

“You really know how to re-open a girl’s wounds, huh?”

“Oops. Didn’t mean to. So that means…?”

“Yes, they got together and I was hurt. Blah, blah, end of story.”

“Was there any other love besides that?”

“Sure. I’ve got tons of crushes and loves.”

“I meant real love. You know, when you really feel it.”

“There’s one.”

“Spill.”

“Well, this one’s that one love I thought would be mine. He liked me back.”

“Wait. I thought there wasn’t any you liked who liked you back?”

“Fine, he’s an exception. The exception. But just because he liked me back doesn’t mean it was any less hurtful than all the other ones.”

“What happened?”

“Well, it just turned out he was in a relationship with someone. I was the one meddling in.”

“Whoa.”

“I know, right? Back then, I didn’t really care. I mean, that was my shot, right? His girlfriend…well, she was pretty and outgoing and could have any other guy aside from him. And then there’s me. I mean, look at me!”

“You’re beautiful.”

“Shut up. Seriously, that’s not funny. I didn’t even know why in the world he’d like me, but he did.”

“So he broke up with his girlfriend?”

“No.”

“What?! That’s sick of him.”

“What can you do? He doesn’t want to hurt her.”

“And you think that by not breaking up with her he’s not hurting her? What about you? Did you ask him to break up with her?”

“No, I couldn’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“Because I didn’t want him to leave me.”

“What?! Stupid girl.”

“…”

“You should have said something. If he liked you enough, he’d do it.”

“I know, right? Stupid, impossible girl.”

“Hey…are you…crying?”

“…I really did love him, you know. That’s why I couldn’t ask him anything else, because I knew he was already torn up inside. It wasn’t like we were kissing or doing anything…bad, honestly, but we just kept seeing each other. That was enough for me.”

“No, that’s not.”

“Huh?”

“Enough–that’s not enough. Not for anyone, including you. What you need is someone who will give you more than enough. Someone who will leave everything to be with you. Anyone who can’t do that doesn’t deserve you.”

“You make me sound like I’m some super special girl. I’m not.”

“You are.”

“You say that as if you know me. We hardly know each other.”

“Well then, I’d like to.”

“Like to what?”

“Know you.”

Note: This has been in my WordPress drafts since the 11th of May, 2010. I don’t know what made me write it, or why, but I’m posting it now just because, well, this place has been dead for a while. It needs more ideas, even lame ones (well…almost all my stories are lame, but whatever).