(A Tribute to a Dear Friend)
There are lines that aren’t meant to be crossed. These lines are meant to be left alone and unscarred. But love, is it supposed to be caged, or liberal? Is love something that is profusely felt and tolerated every time? The thought is vague to me, yet the colors of love become vivid images as I stare into his dark eyes. The earth didn’t matter; we have our own private little world…ours and ours alone.
He sits on the chair behind the desk, in front of the class. The room was a filled with whispers and discreet noises. But here I was, surprisingly silent but wanting to be loud inside. My other self screams for attention, it desires direct contact. I couldn’t move as I was in the depths of thought. I could only stare in wonder of his eyes, his smile… But something pulled me back to reality. It was when he called me to recite a statement. I stood in shock. Everyone became silent. It was me and him in the verge of academic questioning. But it was so easy. The answer dawned on me like a snap of a finger. When I was done, I glanced at his face, and a smile curved at me in recognition.
At times like this, there would always be a friend who understands what you’re going through, or simply a friend who would listen and enjoys how you blush your cheek and close your fists while you scream discreetly with a high-pitched voice in excitement. At the moment, it was my seatmate, who constantly accedes to my plans of catching his attention and consistently listens to every word I say about him and probabilities of him and I together. But we both know it was impossible, it was forbidden. But the burgeoning intensity of desire for his attention kept me away from the sad truth. I could not see, feel nor hear anything besides him whenever we were alone. Yes, we often find ourselves alone. Sometimes at the edge of the corridors, laughing and giggling at our own private little jokes. It was ethereal. I felt I did not care for anything as long as I’m with him. But something’s pulling me back, taunting me, telling me it’s wrong.
IT’S WRONG! IT CANNOT BE! IMPOSSIBLE!
But it feels so right.
Maybe it’s okay…
YOU DON’T KNOW THAT!
But his eyes were riveted in me and his smiles make me melt. He would touch my shoulders for comfort and his jokes take away the bitterness of the day. He was like a medicine to my downfalls. His mere stance and humble approaches lights up my day.
But when I hear someone call him “Professor” or “Sir”, the truth once again grunts at the realm I’m in. He walks away after a brief goodbye to me, and as he walks to present in class, a sad soul whispers;
“We truly cannot be…”
The truth becomes invisible to me yet again, as I held my phone, beeping and telling me he sent a message, that of which makes me feel exhilarated. I would jump up and down and a smile never leaves my face. Reading and engaging in long conversations makes me feel like I don’t want it stop. But I’m still human. We both still get a bit tired. After our humorous and sweet ‘goodnight’s, I lay in bed. Eyes still wide open. Thinking. Thinking. Thinking how unusual and different these past months have been for me. He treats me differently than the others. I felt proud, special…yet what is this feeling? A feeling not in a form of a statement, but of a question. But not only of a single question, but a single question divided into many, and are constantly circling my mind.
Why is he doing this? Why does he talk to me so differently? Is it me? Why do I feel this way? Is it possible that we…? Does he like me? Would HE like me? Does he feel the same way?
Of course, those questions weren’t made alone but made with a spine of proofs that has led to the particular question. From his daily “Hello’s” and “Goodbyes”, his smiles to me, his touches… Oh! It’s driving me crazy! Why wouldn’t I doubt this? Finally he might like me!
Argh! The truth!
“We still cannot be…” says my sad soul.
No! It’s okay!
The basis of the truth was only because of tradition, of culture, of what others would say…that a woman is seen indifferent among fellow women if she is half the age of his beloved. She is accused of so many things, she is cursed, point of gossip, cheater, user, a gold digger…worse, a whore. But why do I expand the thought to this extent?
Because he might like me! We might be together at long last! Oh, I could only imagine sunsets and sunrises with him, I could stare at his eyes endlessly, and be wrapped in his arms for countless moments.
It wouldn’t hurt… Right?
Pain. The feeling of being hurt. The thought of the truth and the constant dilemma pains me, maybe not entirely, but it hit me right where my emotions start to stir. Everyday I wake up being excited to see his visage again, and everyday I have to look down and realize that sad truth.
How would it work? Will we ever be? The answer remains unknown, just as destiny has always been uncertain. Would I still love someone even if it meant filthy words would be thrown at me? But if we did click, it won’t matter.
I am uncertain. This feeling is what I can only sketch, it may be erased and it may not. I am uncertain, his gestures…is it just me? What if there are others like me, longing for the love at an uncertain extent of possibilities? I don’t care what the world says…
I am in love.
I love him.
But would he love me back?