Ryuunosuke the Revered and Righteous woke up at the sound of his growling stomach. He was groggy, perhaps due to waking up unexpectedly at the wee hours of the morning, or maybe because he hadn’t eaten anything for almost two days. Two days! It was an abomination. Certainly the son of the Rat Emperor should have been able to eat luxuriously, but no—Ryuunosuke was, just like the rest of the rat population living in Japan, starving. There had been very little food to harvest from the humans in the past few months owing to the war.

Tsk, humans and their wars! It was shameful how these pitiful creatures kept on killing each other when they could live harmoniously together like the rats do—or did. Now, however, even the Rat Empire was at a state of great discord due to the food shortage. The humans no longer left even one crumb of bread alone, and each grain of rice was greedily taken.

And so, it was a time of great suffering. To make matters worse, the Rat Emperor, Ryuunosuke’s father, was severely ill. If the Emperor were to die at this very critical time, the advisors said to Ryuunosuke, it might mean the end of the Empire—other rat nations were inching closer, awaiting only the fall of the great emperor and the ascension to the throne of the heir apparent, Takahiro the Trusted and Tender, Ryuunosuke’s older (and more timid) brother. Takahiro, despite his years, was not ready for the task. He was too weak-minded to be the Emperor, and everyone knew that fact—especially Takahiro himself.

“My dear brother,” Takahiro said to Ryuunosuke that day, “I cannot bear the thought of our dear father the Emperor perishing in this time! It is not yet time! I am not ready, I am weak! What will happen to our vast empire, then?”

“The Emperor will not die anytime soon,” Ryuunosuke firmly said, but his own voice betrayed him by cracking. “Do not fear your position, brother. You are meant to become our next Emperor, and when that time comes, you will be ready.”

Takahiro fidgeted, his entire body trembling with anxiousness and fear. “Perhaps I shall renounce my claim, and then you will be Emperor! You will become a mighty emperor, Ryuunosuke—”

“Do not speak those words, I beg of you!” Ryuunosuke cried in anger. “I will not be the Emperor—that is not my fate.”

Ryuunosuke went away before Takahiro could even say anything else.

Two days later, after having a few morsels to share with the entire Imperial family, the appointed rat healer looked at the Emperor, with disappointing results. He turned to both princes and said, “The Emperor is very weak, I’m afraid. What His Majesty needs is more good food—”

Ryuunosuke frowned. “Food? But the Emperor is being given a bounty of food. Surely that cannot be the only cure? Medicine, perhaps?”

“Your Highness, the Emperor is growing very weak each day and the amount of food that is being given to His Majesty is highly inconsequential. What matters as of this very moment, really, is of the quality of food His Majesty regularly eats…and what our Empire is able to harvest certainly is not of the highest quality. We need to get the Emperor the best food—that is the only thing that can save him.”

“The best food…?” Ryuunosuke repeated the healer’s words and gasped. “Surely, you cannot mean…”

The healer nodded gravely. “It is our only hope.”

Takahiro looked at his brother and at the healer, with a curious expression on his face. “I have absolutely no idea what is being hinted at by our healer here. My dear brother, kindly explain to me in detail what this is all about.”

Ryuunosuke ignored Takahiro and continued arguing with the healer. “That is impossible. No one in our Empire will come forward of their own accord and sacrifice their life for such a suicidal mission! Not even I!”

“Your Highness, it is our only chance to keep our dear Emperor alive—and our Empire intact.”

“No! Such a preposterous suggestion, Healer, and I thought the better of you!”

Takahiro could no longer take it and shouted. “Enough! What is this you two are talking about and why is it suicidal?”

Ryuunosuke turned to look at his helpless brother and shook his head. “What the healer means to suggest is that someone from our Empire must go to the humans and harvest the most exquisite food there is, something that has not been available to our empire for quite a long time, because it is, I hear, very difficult to make in these difficult times. To procure it is a highly dangerous journey and is tantamount to throwing one’s life away.”

“And what is this ‘most exquisite food,’ may I ask?”

It took a few moments before Ryuunosuke answered.

“Cheese.”

That very same day, the Imperial Household ordered for an announcement to be made in all parts of the Empire, calling for anyone who would be courageous enough to go on a quest to harvest cheese from the Tokumatsu Bakery, the only place near the entire Empire where cheese was available. It was not a long journey, but it was believed that monsters existed inside the bakery, created to protect the treasures of cheese inside. Takahiro believed that a few noble mice would rise to the challenge; Ryuunosuke, on the other hand, thought differently.

Sure enough, Ryuunosuke proved to be right as after two days, nobody seemed keen to hand over their life for a few morsels of cheese, even if it were the most exquisite food in existence, even for their beloved Emperor.

The healer once again warned the princes about the Emperor’s deteriorating health. “There is an urgent need to act now; otherwise, it would be too late.”

Ryuunosuke took a deep breath and sighed. He did this another time, and another, as if he were trying to take in all the air available in that room. Afterwards, he spoke in a deep, final voice: “I will go.”

It took only a few minutes to prepare the prince for his journey, as he insisted he needed nothing except something to eat along the way and a sack for the cheese. Ryuunosuke said his quick goodbyes to his family and friends, as well as to the entire empire. He was scared of his future—or perhaps the lack of future that came with volunteering for this task. But he needed to do it, and he was the only one who was even half willing. He knew he cannot fail.

With a final wave and a promise to return to the citizens of the Rat Empire, Ryuunosuke scampered on to the streets, alone.

To be continued…

Note: This was written for a Humanities class about making a story using Joseph Campbell’s format of a quintessential hero’s journey. It was supposed to be a short story, taking one or two pages at most…but this one ended up being soooo long that I decided not to turn it in. I highly enjoyed writing this though, so I decided to post it here instead. XD

II.
Your hand is so cold
and so small and so fragile.
I hold it in mine.

III.
How I love to see
you wake up in the mornings
lying beside me.

IV.
There’s nothing in the
world that I love more than you.
I hope you know that.

—

Note: Did a few haiku for extra credit on my Humanities class. The haiku I made are lame (obviously) as I have no talent for poetry, but…as long as I get the extra credit, everything’s good…

Yet that day she wasn’t alone. There was a man sitting opposite her. He wore a smile so wide it was as if he won the jackpot in some lottery.

And he really won, he thought.

He won when I gave up my claim to the grand prize.

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.

“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).

I didn’t know what to expect when I came back after two years, but I was excited, thrilled, nervous at the prospect of seeing my friends after so long. There was a small get-together party on the Saturday after my arrival, Nina said, and I should definitely go. I agreed.

Waiting for me there in that party was a surprise. A big one, in fact. Henry is getting married. With a baby on the way.

I was speechless when the news got around to me. Nina was eyeing me nervously, as if expecting me to cry any minute. But I couldn’t cry. I was more shocked than upset. Why would I be upset, anyway? It’s not as if I had any right to be. Two years ago, probably, I would have gone straight to Henry and screamed at him for hurting me, for betraying me…but this time, I had no right to be angry.

I left because I wanted to. Henry asked me to stay, Henry begged me to. Still I went. I went with the promise that I wouldn’t hold him back, that I was breaking things off with him so he could start a new life with someone who wouldn’t leave him for her wants and dreams, unlike me. I broke it off knowing full well that when I’d be back someone would probably have taken my place beside him.

Indeed there is someone. Her name’s Georgina. Caucasian and slim. Her brown hair goes right below her shoulder. She wore a black dress to the party. She was very pretty. She looked so well with Henry that I couldn’t help but stare at the two of them, Henry’s arm wrapped around her waist.

She knew me, of course; I could tell with her subtle side glances that she was aware of the five-year history I had with Henry. Add to that the fact that I was the only one in the party who came back to town after two years–a description that fit Henry’s ex-girlfriend qualifications perfectly.

I congratulated them with honest intentions of plain well-wishing, but I doubt my friends would have seen it as that. Tricia got me to a corner and told me how she hated Henry for easily replacing me, and how shocked they all were of the sudden marriage and baby. Nina kept pulling me away from Henry and Georgina’s crowd, as if any minute I would burst into tears and make a scene. Then there was Mike, Laura, Wes, and Tina asking me slowly and carefully all night if I was fine. I kept telling them I was. They didn’t believe me.

But I was fine. Henry isn’t a boyfriend who cheated; he’s an ex who decided to move on with his life once I left and has now begun a new life with someone else. I can’t blame him for wanting that, a new life–I myself told him to do so, because he deserves to be with someone who can appreciate him and be with him. Because he deserves to be loved. I was fine with that.

Still, as I entered our house at half past one, I couldn’t help but let a tear out. Then another. And another. Before long I was crying noisily by the door, the lights shut and my family now sleeping in their respective bedrooms.

Why had I cried? It wasn’t because Henry hurt me; he did nothing of the sort. It wasn’t because of Georgina, either; she was nothing but gracious and friendly the whole evening.

I cried because a little part of me wanted to believe that time stopped for me in New York, that by the time I came back everything would remain as it was when I left. I cried because I knew Henry didn’t do anything wrong, that I was the one in the wrong, for feeling this way when I did the leaving and walking out. I cried because on the hour I took the flight to New York, the minute I exited the JFK airport, and even the very moment I saw them at the party, I was still in love with Henry. Intensely so. Desperately so. Foolishly so.

I cried because it was all my fault. If I hadn’t left…If I just stayed…

- Written on November 4, 2009

Thunders rolled outside again. For the nth time that afternoon, I weighed my options. I could, of course, stand up, go out to my parked car and forget this incident. But then again, I could stay and wait for her to come.

This is the last time, I thought. After this, I won’t wait anymore. I won’t contact her again.

I took another sip of my coffee, which had been sitting there for almost two hours now. Wait for another minute, I said to myself. She’ll come. Have patience.

After five more minutes, a woman stepped inside the café. She was totally wet, and her hair looked as if she never combed her entire life. Then, searching the crowd of unfamiliar people, she spotted me and walked towards my table. It dawned upon me that moment: She was whom I had been waiting for.

“Nicola,” she said in a weak voice. “It’s nice to see you.”

I shivered as I heard her voice, and an inexplicable anger for the woman in front of me suddenly spread throughout my entire body.

“My name’s not Nicola.” I spat at her. “I’m Alexandra.”

She smiled as she sat down. Perhaps she did not feel the tension between us. “You may be Alexandra to them, but you’re Nicola to me.”

“You’re late, by the way,” I snarled.

“Yes, I know. I got caught in the traffic. It’s raining rats out there.”

I smirked. “The saying is ‘raining cats and dogs’, not rats.”

“I wasn’t using figurative language, Nicola. It was literally raining rats out there. I walked through a street and rats were everywhere.”

“I told you not to call me Nicola! My name’s Alexandra!”

“But you are Nicola. No matter what they call you, you’re still Nicola. I named you Nicola. I named you Nicola so that we’d have the same name.”

“I don’t see any reason why you should call me Nicola.” I pointed out to her. “After all, that isn’t the name I have on my birth certificate. My name is Alexandra. I am Alexandra.”

“I’m your mother, Nicola, and I named you Nicola.”

Hatred surged through my veins for this woman second after second.

“Biologically, yes, but I don’t think it goes beyond that.”

“You’re still Nicola to your mother.”

“You are NOT my mother. Remember that.”

Tears sprung from her eyes at that very moment. I looked away. Did she have to make me see her tears right when all I could feel was deep hatred and intense anger for her?

“I am your mother. I was the one who bore you for nine months. I was the one who had problems with my pregnancy.”

“But your being my mother stops from there. My mother took care of me for the last twenty five years, and she still takes care of me. She never left me alone, unlike you.”

She couldn’t look at me in the eye for minutes.

“Can’t you tell me the reason why you gave me up? Why did you give me to some people you hardly know?”

“I did that because of you.”

I laughed bitterly. Who was she kidding? “Because of me? Tell me the truth. Why? Because of money? Because of what? I need to know.”

“Because of your future.” She started.

“I knew you had no future with me. I was a penniless twenty-year old when I had you. I was impregnated by your father. When he realized that I was pregnant, he left me. My parents—your grandparents—disowned me the moment I told them about you. I had no one and nothing on my name.

“I only knew of one thing that time: to keep you. We could live together and have a beautiful life. Months later, reality hit me. I couldn’t keep you and give you a beautiful life at the same time. It was just too impossible. When I was nearing my ninth month, a friendly couple took me and offered to take my child as their own.

“At first, I didn’t like the idea, but later I realized that they could give you something that I never could. You could have that wonderful life with them, something that you’d never have with me. I had no choice at the matter.”

“You had a choice.” I pointed out. “You could give me to them or you could live through it with me. If you chose the latter, we’d have a different life. Together.”

“Yes…but did you ever think of the life I can give you? I never finished college, I had no job…I had no home. I had nothing. If I were to keep you, what would I feed you? You would only have a miserable life with me. I couldn’t give you the education you have now.”

“That’s NOT the point.” I spat resentfully. “You should’ve thought of what I’d feel, living without a real identity of my own. Everyone called me Alexandra, yet I wasn’t. The parents I grew up knowing weren’t mine. They weren’t real. If I lived with you, it’d have been different.”

“But do you think you’d have this…this ‘real identity’ if you lived with me? Nic—Alexandra…you wouldn’t have anything of what you have right now if you lived with me. You wouldn’t be happy…We’d both be miserable then.”

I shook my head, and a tear fell from my eye. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. You don’t know what I would’ve felt…or what I’m still feeling right now.”

“Did you honestly think it was easy for me to give you up? You were my child, my only child. But I knew I shouldn’t think of myself, but of your future. I couldn’t give you any of the material things they could…I couldn’t give you anything. I had to think of you, my child.”

I shook my head once more. “I don’t believe you. All you thought of was yourself.”

I stood up afterwards, took a few dollars out of my wallet, put down some on the table, and handed the others to the woman in front of me.

“That’s what was exchanged for me before, right? Money? There you go. Goodbye.”

I walked off and headed towards the exit and was about to open the door when someone put a hand on my shoulder. I looked behind, and there she was, tearful and sad. On her hand was the money I gave her.

“Someday soon you’ll realize what I had sacrificed for your sake. It’s worth more than any money, Nicol—Alexandra. You’ll know that.” She handed me the money and left.




A fortnight after seeing my biological mother, I was in an important meeting regarding the sales of the company I worked for. I was in a good mood, and I felt as if it was a great day. My fiancé just talked with my parents about our upcoming wedding and my parents were nearing their 35^th wedding anniversary.

Just then, I had an unexpected phone call from my biological mother. She said she wanted to see for one last time, because she would leave the state and go to Texas to spend her time with her friends.

“Meet me at the same café,” she said.

Of course, I had no intention whatsoever to meet her. She was never a part of my life, and she would never be.

I remained inside my office for the next five hours, and our meeting time passed. Maybe now she knew what it felt like to be kept waiting. Just then, I decided to meet her. After all, it would be the last time that it’d ever happen.

I took my car and sped off towards the café.

Traffic was horrible that day. The cars would move about an inch for a second, and then wait for thirty minutes until the next movement in the traffic. I was getting irritated and I realized that it was never a good thing to meet her in the first place.

I looked out of my window and asked another driver about the traffic.

“A car accident, perhaps. This highway is prone to accidents, after all,” he said. After I thanked him, I listened to some music and called my fiancé.

“Where are you again?” he asked. I answered his question, and there was silence on the line.

“Wait a moment. I’m checking the news channel for accidents or whatnot.” I could hear the familiar sounds of the news channel he was checking. It was then that I heard it.

“Yes, there’s an accident. Involving a car and a bus. The driver of the car’s dead. It’s a woman, named…Nicola Anderson. Well, I guess you’ll be stuck there for a long time.”

I couldn’t hear him afterward. Surely…I was just mistaken. There were, perhaps, hundreds of Nicolas in America. It wasn’t that much uncommon. But what were the chances of another Nicola in this very highway, besides me and my biological mother? I shut the phone off, went out of the car, and walked towards the accident. I needed to know.

My heart was pounding as I neared the accident area. There was an ambulance, many police cars, and people all over. I searched the crowd for a sign of her anywhere.

And then I saw it.

The ambulance took her body. Her pale features showed no life, no strength. I cried as I looked at her closed eyes, to her lips.

“Miss? Miss?”

I looked at the officer in front of me. His face was full of concern.

“Are you a relative of the victim, miss?”

I shook my head. “…No. Thank God, no.”

I left the scene right after that and headed to the café as fast as possible.

When I reached the place, I searched for my mother, and I saw her, sitting at the exact table like two weeks ago. I rushed to her side.

“Alexand—”

I hugged her deeply, thanking God for keeping her alive long enough for me to realize how important she was to me, and how much I’d suffer if I lost her without even telling her how much I longed for my real mother’s touch.

“What’s wrong, Alexandra? What happened?”

I shook my head.

“I’m not Alexandra. I’m Nicola. I’m your daughter.”

-Written during high school for my school paper. I’m glad I was able to keep a copy; most of the stuff I wrote had long been forgotten and thrown away.

That was until the crash.

It was December 2 then. He and I were going home from a seminar about music—I came with him, the aspiring musician, because he didn’t want to go alone. He was the kind of boy who was quiet and didn’t talk much, the kind who had a mountain of thoughts to share, but only reserved those thoughts to the people he felt he could divulge his secrets to. I wanted to come with him because I knew it was the only thing I could do to show my support; his parents didn’t like the thought of their son, the talented straight-A achiever, to only end up playing musical instruments all his life. They wanted more for him; I, on the other hand, wanted just his happiness. So I came.

It was a long way home then, and traffic wasn’t exactly light. I was listening to the radio, an old Beatles song wafting through the air inside his secondhand pick-up truck. I liked the smell inside his truck—like a mixture of woody parks, soapy smells, and his very own cologne. I told him so and he chuckled as he gave me a quick glance.

“I love you, I love you, I love you…” he murmured as the Beatles song continued to play. “That’s all I want to say, until I find a way…”

I smiled as he continued to sing the song, replacing my name in the song lyrics. I laughed as he continued to sing the verses, and I saw him raise his hand, looking for mine. I quickly took his hand with my own and squeezed it.

The SUV came out of the blue. It was over before I knew it.

When I opened my eyes the very next moment, my world was upside down. I slowly closed my eyes again. My head was spinning as I tried to remember what happened and why I was in such cramped space. When my head finally found its way back to what had happened, my eyes opened with alarm. It was dark, but I knew I was still inside the car, my seatbelt forcing me to stay put, and I was glad for it; had it not been there, I probably would have found myself out of the truck and into the open and dangerous road.

I looked at my left, fearing for him. His head was leaning against the broken glass of his window, and I could make out the dark forms of liquid stuck in the cracks of the glass. Blood.

My hands quickly went to him, trying to shake him into waking. Nothing helped. I was scared and I didn’t know what to do, so I did what I thought was the one thing I should do—fish around for my phone and call for emergency.

Before I could, however, my world became black.



I woke up inside a white room with blurry figures overlooking me. Once my eyesight had finally gone back to its normal state, I recognized that the blurry figures then were my parents. My mother asked if I was okay, my father quickly called a doctor. I slowly blinked a couple of times before I remembered—blood.

I shot up in alarm, remembering what had happened and why I was in what looked like a hospital room in the first place. My first question was about him.

“He’s…honey, I think you should rest for a bit, and we’ll talk to you about it later.”

I pressed for an answer, urging my worried mother to tell me about his condition. There was something in my mother’s voice that scared me, and my mind kept going back to the vision of him inside the truck, his eyes closed, blood running down the side of his head—

It was then that the doctor came and injected something through the IV line. I protested, but before long, I could feel the sedative lulling me to sleep.

I woke up after a few hours of sleep and I quickly pressed my mother for the answers to my questions. I’m fine, I kept telling her with a cracking voice, just tell me where he is.

I could still feel my mother’s hesitation as her eyes flicked over to where my father stood. I was getting impatient; I never did well with worrying.

My last memories of the accident were of him bleeding. I know he might be in a worse condition than I am…I need to know.

It was then that my father told me. My eyes welled with tears as the news slowly made its way to my brain and my heart. It felt so unreal; it was only a few hours ago when the boy I loved was driving his pick-up truck and softly singing me a love song. I was holding his hand firmly with mine then, my head filled with thoughts of love and contentment and happiness and forever. It was an understatement to say that the news crushed my heart and my very being.

I was discharged after two days, and all that I received from the accident were minor cuts from shards of the glass windows, a small bruise on one arm and a whiplash. Meanwhile, he was still unconscious in the ICU. There was no assurance that he would be okay once he opened his eyes—no, there was no assurance that he would open his eyes at all.

Mother told me I shouldn’t put more stress to myself, and everytime she asked this of me, I grew silent. How could I not, when I was there when it happened, when someone important to me was still hanging on to his life by a mere thread, when I’m awake and he isn’t? The pain of losing him, the one boy who has ever loved me in return, the one boy who I have ever shared my dreams and fears with…it hurt too much to even think about it. I was scared that every passing minute would become his last, and I was scared for even thinking that way. I knew then that I needed to think positively, but fear always crumbled every last one of the hopeful thoughts inside my head. Each day burned inside me, and I would find myself lost in tears and prayers that he would soon wake up and everything would go back to how it was before then.

He woke up six days later. I was inside the room with his mother when he did, and I felt more than relieved when he slowly opened his eyes and looked around the room. I quickly called for the doctor as his mother went to his side and cried with tears of happiness and relief. He was alive, and that in itself was something to be happy about.

When I came back to the room, everything changed. His mother was still crying, and so was he. The air in the room didn’t feel one that was festive and celebratory; it felt far from that. I saw only intense grief and agony on their faces as I tried to make sense of what was happening.

I was silently crying in the corner as I painfully looked at him and realized what was happening. He was screaming louder than I have ever heard him, his face contorted with such anguish that I couldn’t bear to look directly at his face. Two doctors were trying to calm him down, to no avail.

The doctors explained to us various complicated jargons about his condition that I couldn’t decipher, but there was one little bit that I understood: severe damage to parts of the temporal lobes of his brain. Apart from other things, he could no longer hear.

Everything changed from then on. He was still alive yet he was robbed of his life. I wanted to act positively and think that with everyone’s help he could get through his biggest obstacle and move on, but I knew that was hard to achieve. He was only a boy who wanted to become a musician—he was no Beethoven and there weren’t any guarantees that he could continue with his music. Even his motivation and drive were gone. For the first few months, he barely touched his food and stayed inside his room unless he was called for rehabilitation. His communication to any relative or friend would be one curt head shake, and that was it. His eyes, those brown ones that I loved to look at, were blank and devoid of life.

I tried to stay strong for him, and every day I would visit with a smile on my face, when in the shadows I would cry for him. My act was tough in his presence, even when he pushed me aside and shook his head for me to get out, even when he avoided my eyes and acted as if I wasn’t even there. Everytime I forced my company to him, he would scream so loud, his voice full of pain and anger and sadness and I could do nothing but wrap my arms around him and cry along with his screams. I knew his wish everyday was to hear even a faint sound of his earsplitting screams, and every single time he would be filled with disappointment and anger and nothing but silence.

It was one early Saturday morning as I was about to enter his room when I heard several things happen inside—the thud of several things being thrown, the sudden crash of glass becoming broken, and another one of his earsplitting, heart-wrenching screams. This time, he screamed one word.

WHY!!?

I quickly opened the door and saw him on his knees. On the floor were torn sheet music, fragments of his broken window and the remains of the acoustic guitar he once loved to strum and sing along with. He repeated the word, this time with a whisper, as he slowly took the closest sheet music and cried. I stood there the entire time, looking at the boy who lost any hope of fulfilling his dreams. I cried with him then as I slowly walked towards him. I knew he was aware of my presence inside his room, but he neglected my presence and avoided showing any awareness that I was around. I sat in front of him and slowly reached up to stroke his cheek with one hand, for fear that he would push my hand away once again.

He froze at my sudden touch and looked up to meet my eyes. It was then that I once again saw a tiny glimmer of life in those brown eyes that had been avoiding me for the longest time. We sat there like that for a while, our eyes never leaving the other, with my fingers lightly touching his face.

I showed him a small smile, and slowly whispered the lyrics of the Beatles song that he last sang for me. “I love you, I love you, I love you… That’s all I want to say…”

His eyes widened and tears ran down his cheeks once again. Even if he couldn’t hear it, I knew he could feel every bit of emotion that ran through those words.

“I love you too,” he mouthed barely a whisper.

I knew at that moment…somehow, things were going to be fine.