Watermelon Kiss

You’re touchy-feely lately. Don’t even think I didn’t notice. You touched my shoulder and back—lightly, casually, mussed my hair, squeezed my arms, enthusiastically greeting me…

oh fuck I’m near crying now and it must be because of the sleepiness, exhaustion, melancholic music, haunting report to be done, and you.

I just. I don’t know, okay? I do feel happy. I do. It’s just I don’t know what it means to you and I’m scared that the whole thing turns out to be nothing after all.

Happy valentine, by the way. Hope you get whoever it is you’re eyeing right now.

When you leaned towards me and your head touched my shoulder for the briefest of moment, I had to wonder if it was intentional.

Let’s start the rant with what happened yesterday. Yesterday, I sat with you before the test and supposedly we studied. Supposedly. We both know the truth. We talked. About what, I can’t remember for sure. We talked a bit about manga, a bit about marriage and religion, a bit about the exam, a bit about some people we know, and some other things I can’t remember too well. But you did say something along the lines of “you coming tomorrow?” to which I replied, “maybe, should I?” and you replied, “yes, of course you should, there’d be free food!”

You ended the topic with “the dress code is batik”, said with such finality in your tone as if you were so sure I would come.

I didn’t wear batik when I went to campus earlier this afternoon. Then I stumbled into one of the juniors. She was all enthusiastic and asked me to come to the event. I said maybe. I was reminded of what you said yesterday, and I made up my mind.

You know what I did next? I went to my best friend’s place, forced her to lend me a batik top (with the cutest bolero that I am almost tempted to steal from her), and dragged her all the way to the event although she was not really the most eager person in the world to come with me there. All for you. I wanted to talk to you, laugh along your side as we watch the little mini-games and events and quizzes and award-thingies. I came because you asked me to.

What did I get?

For one, you were right. She—the junior—was right. There really was free food, and it was pretty good too.

Secondly, it was fun. The weather was good and I laughed and laughed and laughed and got to talk to some friends and all.

But you. You, sir, single-handedly—or should I say effortlessly—ruined the night. Not by making snide, sarcastic comments or straight-out making fun of me like you usually do. No.

You ignored me. You did not even say hi. Was it really to hard for you to spot me? Because I’m pretty sure you noticed a friend sitting next to me. You did talk to her. But you did not even spare a single glance my way. I doubt you noticed that I even existed then.

And guess why it hurt? It hurt because I did all these for you. Because you eagerly said that I should come. Because we did have a great chat yesterday, like those other days we did talk a lot about practically everything. And then what happened was that you ignored me like those other days you ignored me.

I’m tired of you.

Last, but not least, do reduce the number of cigarettes you smoke every day because according to my best friend you were coughing like a tuberculosis patient on his deathbed tonight, and heavens, as much as I don’t want to care and it’s your absolute right to try dying I still worry about your health.

Yours sincerely,

The Acquaintance (But Not Friend, Since Friends Say Hi To Each Other) Who Secretly Care For You.

We could have had it all

Rolling in the deep

You had my heart in your hand

But you played it to the beat.

You know, I’m starting to wonder if I really moved on, because people say if I really had I’d stop thinking of you. But I suppose if you etched it so deep in me it’s bound to leave an itching scar even after it’s plucked out. So there you go. You are nothing more than an itchy scar, and I suppose it wouldn’t hurt me anymore.

One moment we were talking about the hazing planning I used to hate so much — and I still do hold some sort of an aversion towards it, only I’m hypocritical enough to use it to get close to you — and the next moment you were looking at me, asking if I were ill.

What did I answer it with? Can’t recall much, but it must have been along the line of “Sorta, tired, feeling weak” or something, because before I knew it you extended your hand and ruffled my hair lightly, telling me to rest, and then left me baffled.

How could you expect me to rest after that?

She saw the notebook — small, red, with a black elastic to keep it closed around it — in a bookstore, and almost immediately she decided to buy it for him. So she did, only to have it kept in her bag, not wrapped, her mind debating if she should just give it. At one point, she decided, “To hell with it!” and set her mind to present it to him.

So the day came. She intentionally came earlier than she ought to, only so she could make an excuse by buying coffee in a cafe near the student org room, then pass by and “accidentally” meet him. He nonchalantly asked for a sip of her coffee, and she gave it to him, a small smile nearly visible on her lips as she watched him drink. When he handed the plastic cup back to her, she shoved the notebook, wrapped with plain paper, to his face.

He told her he’d open the present later and thanked her.

Some hours later, he texted her “thank you” again.

She smiled.

I just love to run away, don’t I? Here I am, now with a new bud of feelings so ready to bloom and there you are, still clinging on the old, dried, withered flower whose petals have fallen down ages ago. It’s totally my fault for implying that the flower might still live while I was readying myself to flee from you. No, I was not being sarcastic. It really is my fault.

The thing is, I was scared. Well, I still am anyway, but now I just think that I would forever be scared and it’s no longer a reason to flee. It’s unfair for you. It’s unfair to our friendship.

When you told me you dreamt of me — well, you did not really tell me, but that blog post was directed to me, wasn’t it — I felt like weeping. I didn’t, though. I don’t know why.

Could we even return to that point again? That point where we were so close and where we told each other everything? Is it even possible, without hurting either one of us?

Because I could already feel the thousands of papercuts I’d get for digging into the old archives of my emotion, but we’d probably like the fact that I would be pained. I know I would, since I am still blaming myself. Would you, as a mean for revenge?

Cold water is poured over a still-wet acrylic painting, the image blurs away, leaving behind a blotchy canvas.

Not a clean, almost-new canvas.

A blotchy one.

The beauty fades, vanishes, leaves, but the memories remains, sticking stubbornly; it is neither clear nor vivid, but the traces of what was there stays. There is no more aesthetics in the washed-out painting, only a gory and horrifying mess.

If only I could burn down this wretched image into ashes.

But it is cold, cold, freezing, and I have no means right now to even make myself a half-decent fire. All my firewood stacks are wet, and the wind and pouring precipitation makes it impossible for any spark to ignite.

I am alone.

The rain keeps splashing,

splashing,

hitting my head, shoulders and back mercilessly.

A hail is coming soon, the forecast says.

She was never too fond of watermelons. It was an odd, obscure fruit to her. Peaches and cherries and apples and oranges all had their own characteristic taste, so did watermelons — only less than the former. More of water and sugar, and less fragrant. She did not necessarily hate it, she only thought it was not special enough for her. Such was her stance upon it.

She did not change her stance, and if she could have another choice she would avoid eating the fruit. Pretty as its slices were, red lined with green, glistening wet black seeds scattered in the flesh, it did not appeal much to her.

Not until that day came.

He was strolling down the path with two, not one, slices of watermelons, ripe and dripping juice. The sight was… mouth-watering, for lack of a better term to describe it. In the middle of the scorching hot day, with sunlight remorselessly burning the nape of their necks, two slices of watermelon came to her without her even asking for it.

Technically, the fruit was never hers to begin with and he was not even bringing them for her sake, but who cares for the details?

So she grabbed into thin air with her sun-kissed hands, too lazy to even properly stand up and ask if she could have a bite.

He was never a cruel person, so he lowered down the slice to her begging fingers.

She took a bite, the fruit easily crunched between her teeth, releasing fresh juice into her thirsty mouth.

Cheesy as it was, she could not escape the thought that they had, indirectly, kissed via the innocent slice of red watermelon.