From the lingering smell of a girl’s perfume on the collar of your shirt as I snuggle on your neck, I was supposed to feel the warmth of your embrace but I felt cold. Cold as if a bucket full of water with ice was poured on me, as I realised the perfume isn’t mine. It began. Was it a crime to accuse you all at once?

I thought it was so the benefit of doubt was the least I could give. But the constant ringing of your phone whenever you were with me and the hint of a smile from your lips as you opened the message told me this doesn’t seem like a text message you’ve received from one of your teammates. It continued. Would I sound like a lawyer if I interrogated you?


I didn’t want to sound like a lawyer so I let it pass. We never lied to each other but here was a thing I wouldn’t admit. There were times when I followed you wherever you go because of these aching accusations etched in my mind fuelled by your suspicious actions I couldn’t set aside. It escalated. Could I be sued for being a stalker of someone who was supposed to be the love of my life?


At this point I did not care anymore as I sketched an elaborate plan to confirm these suspicions that stopped me from having a peaceful sleep at night. Your actions kept me awake as I recalled the old-you whenever you were with me. I sulked more upon the realisation that you’ve never been this distant before. It led me to drastic measures and could you blame me when you, the supposed love of my life, drifted away as if an ocean is between us? It went out of control. Am I the suspect of this crime?


The answer was no. When one day we’re together, you told me you need to go. You brushed me off like dust when I asked and the conversation even heated when all I wanted to know was what was happening between us. You said we were fine but you know damn well we were far from that. The only right thing you did was to leave your phone when you walked out the door and there I saw the main evidence in this mystery I’ve been trying to solve. This last and most crucial clue brought me to the crime scene. I saw you kissing her. It ended. I knew I was the victim and I’m suing you for committing murder.


Now don’t you dare tell me that you are not a murderer; because you killed me the moment I saw you with her.



(featured image courtesy: deviant art)


When I met you at the park, it was the colour of the sky. As we watched the lovely swans, it was the colour of the pond.


It was also the colour of the berries we liked to eat at picnics. We gazed from the beach at our dates and it was the colour of the sea.


It was the colour of the syrup we’d like to have on our pancakes during breakfast.


On the first time you asked me to dance with you, it was the colour of your shirt. It was the colour of my hair when you kissed me on my favourite band’s concert.


Mystery,” the representation of the colour of the rose you gave me.


We were as unpredictable as the colour of the gem embedded on the ring in my left hand. Yes, it was also the colour of my dress when you asked for my hand in marriage.


Truly, we were as enigmatic as the colour phase of the moon that rarely occurs but such a sight to see.
It was the colour that felt the most significant for me. It may be the colour of ambiguity but


I knew it was the colour of our love.


Little did I know, it would be the colour of the car that would smash into you before the day of our wedding.


How I wish I could still have one chance to stare at your eyes which also features that exact same colour. That was indeed the colour that symbolises us, because it still remains a mystery to me. We fought so hard to give the colour a different meaning, but depression and sadness and grief was always it would be.



(featured image courtesy of

Don’t Write Fairytales; Live One

ROMANCE NOVELS ARE the epitome of picture-perfect life anyone could have asked for. They portray a life where boy meets girl, good girl meets bad boy, cheery meets enigma, pauper meets prince, peasant meets billionaire, and insert here whatever couple you like. Just like every other unique story, romance novelists point out the irony about typical books depicting uncomplicated love stories with a common plot.

Personally, I do not think I could stereotype that most romance books contain the same, boring plot because I have a limited share of books I have read that fall under this genre. Fortunately, the limited amount of books in this category that I have come across seem to deeply and accurately delineate the true to life and seemingly believable struggles and conflicts of fictional but relatable characters.

I believe it’s just about picking the right books which truly knows the term complication but at the same time, arrives at a worth-the-wait happily ever after. At least the characters attain an ending they deserve after all they’ve been through (although I admit my usual pessimistic self is a sucker for tragedy).

But the real point here is that the amount of books one has read can make one crave for something similar in their own lives. However, everyone’s life moves as unique as everyone else’s.

Perhaps, that’s the reason why no one can create a real-life love story that goes exactly like that of a certain plot featured in romance novels. No one ever happens to write a fairytale and turn the precise fictitious events into reality.

I suppose it is because the best love stories are never merely written–they are lived. 

So when the right time comes, don’t write your own fairytale. Live the one you deserve.


(featured image courtesy: pinterest)

Are You Happy Now?

SHE READ TOO much, way too much, not because she was a snob who would rather read than socialise but because she was not very good at opening up to people. She wrote, immortalised her thoughts on paper since she was afraid to speak up. You call her a ‘nerd’. She listened to her favourite kind of music, the one you call screamo and worthless piece of sh*t. You call her different names for her obsession in books and bands and her little haven annoyed you. Why? Why do you need to call her ‘ugly’, ‘fat’, ‘bitch’ and every name you have in your book? Perhaps, it’s because of your jealousy. You can’t accept the fact that she was happy in the little things she did. Even though she was hurting because of your judgments, she had her escape. And you can’t replicate that side of her. You can’t have the ability to dream like how she did. She wanted to live, you know? She wanted to travel the world, and witness its wonders. She wanted to learn new things, play the oddest musical instruments, meet new people and explore different sights. She wanted to meet her favourite authors and thank them for the books that had been her friend when you’re busy laughing at her. She wanted to meet her favourite bands who had inspired her and made her feel beautiful when you’re busy mocking her. Are you happy now? Are you happy now that you have succeeded in this devious act of yours? You made her lose this little ball of hope that was only left in her precious heart that you keep on breaking. Why do you have to be so mean? So cruel? So judgmental? Now, she’s gone. Long gone are her dreams, happiness, fears, and thoughts. There will be no nerd, bitch, and ugly anymore. She took away her life and you’re the reason why. Thank you for always saying ‘always be yourself if that makes you happy’ and judging afterwards. I hope you are happy now.


(featured image courtesy of

Jasmine (An Adaptation)

Note: It’s been a long time since I’ve posted a short story in here. This was written for a retelling/adaptation paper required in my English 11 class last 9 September 2015. The same format as my old work, Love at Failed Sight and it is an adaptation of James Joyce‘s notable work, Araby.

IT IS THREE days before winter break. The sun has barely risen in the morning sky and the city is getting colder and colder by the days passing by. Snow slowly covers the place and trees seem to have leaves as white as ivory. Nevertheless, students in the University still need to endure the last three days before they could spend their precious holidays.

The city is still busy no matter what. Traffic continues to fill up the streets and at one of the corners is a café which is busier than ever. Uni students always have the need for a dose of caffeine, anyway. However, this day is more jam-packed due to the need of something warm for the body.

She is in no exception. Sitting alone in her usual spot in the café, a fresh cup of espresso is in her table and in her hands is a 19th century classic book she needs to analyse in her Literary Class. Needless to say, she is completely oblivious to her surroundings. She is always the loner, so it isn’t a new thing for her not to pay attention to the city around her.

She continues on reading her book totally in touch with its fictional characters until a raspy voice speaks, “Hello, Miss!”

She slowly looks up with a slight hint of annoyance for disturbing her fervent reading. But what she sees—who, rather—makes her palpitate deep inside. This is the guy with the brightest shade of blue orbs she has been having a crush on for months now. Just by looking at him, she is lost in a trance until he speaks and smiles at her, “Each seat seems to be taken. May I share a seat with you?”

Slightly embarrassed from her little staring, she immediately replies, “Uhm, sure.” Then she gives back a smile to prevent her blush.

‘Is this real?’ she thinks to herself. Sitting in front of her is the guy who she has been stalking on every social media page for months. Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, you name it. Don’t get her wrong, though. Who wouldn’t be infatuated with the Team Captain of the Varsity Football Team, Vice Chairperson of the Student Council, Outstanding Member of the Debate Society and the most popular junior student in the campus?

He is every girl’s dream. He is the Prince Charming in fairy tales. He is the epitome of Mr. Perfect Guy. And she, being a fresh newbie in the university isn’t able to fight the infatuation for him.

In her three months stay in the university, she has watched all four football elimination games which their school’s team have won (and six of eight goals have been achieved by him). She has attended orientations hosted by the Student Council just to see his face. She has watched his speeches with the Debate Society.

On the other hand, there she is. A freshman. A recluse. A nobody. Someone who engages herself in books, studies, and is usually on her own. The only organization she’s a part of is the Book Club. Being a geek, she is satisfied with her profound liking to be alone. However, it changes the day she met him.

And that brings back to their first-ever face to face in a café on the greatest day of winter (in her opinion).

“This coffee shop never fails to be jam packed every second week of December, does it?” he inquires.

He is actually starting a conversation with her. He, of all the people, is starting a conversation with her. Something is wrong with the scenario but she doesn’t care as she has been waiting for this day to happen.

So she answers, “Yeah, I guess. It’s never like this on any time of the year. It’s always Coffee on Decembers.”

He nods taking a sip from his coffee cup, his fingers anxiously tapping on the hardwood table and gazing at his phone from time to time as if waiting for an important call.

She wants to bring a new topic for a conversation but how could she do that? She can barely speak a word to her acquaintances and some friends, what more to him?

Should she continue the conversation?


“YOU WILL BE at the Winter Fair, right?” She has spat out the words before she could stop it. ‘Could you control yourself? Seriously,’ she mentally scolds herself.

“Yes, I will be there,” He answers still not looking up from his phone.

And all she does is to reply with a nod. Suddenly a phone vibrates and he picks it up. Upon reading the text message, he said to her, “sorry, I need to go. See you when I see you.”

She nods once more and gives him a small smile, but deep inside she is hyperventilating. His presence makes her senses giddy, her heart beating faster than its normal pace, her legs wobbly, and her mind all over the place.

Standing up from her seat, she thought to herself, ‘I have a Winter Fair to attend to.’


“AUNT, I REALLY need to go to this fair,” she pleads her mother’s sister who has been financially supporting her since the start of her college.

“But the time of that event is your shift in my boutique,” her aunt reasons out.

“I will do extra shifts on winter break. I just really need to attend this one. Please let me. Please.”

“Several months in school and you already know how to party? What would your parents think of you?” her aunt accuses.

“But it is not a party. It is just a fair hosted by my university. I’ll be back at a reasonable hour,” she explains.

“Make sure you do or I’ll pull out my financial assistance on your school fees. Now go do your chores,” her aunt dismisses her because she could even agree.


THE NEXT THREE days become busier for her. Although winter break is getting closer, her errands pile up higher and higher. She is not just a university student. She works as a waitress too, a saleslady in her Aunt’s boutique and has a part-time job at the local bakery.

Unlike him, life for her isn’t that easy. Not even close. Whilst he is at the top without any struggles, she, on the contrary, needs to strive hard in order to catch the pace.

In any circumstance of her life these days, he is somehow included. She can’t get him out of her mind. The odds are saying she doesn’t stand a chance but she still hopes they would meet again.

That is why she stood up against her aunt for the first time just to allow her to go to the fair. Their Book Club will be hosting a bazaar and this might be her way in getting a glimpse of the junior student that’s always in her mind.

How would he notice her again? That is the question of the hour. She is just another Jane Doe, whilst he is one in a million. Perhaps, a gift for Christmas will give her the chance to talk to him again.

Yes! A gift, indeed!


THE NIGHT BEFORE the fair, she feels a different kind of adrenaline through her veins. She has gotten her most intricate casual outfit at the farthest part of her not-so-very-large wardrobe. She has taken time to look for various cosmetics she could use to beautify herself. She has dug deep under the bed to get her precious piggy bank. It’s time to say goodbye to her Mr. Piggy.

Others may find it bizarre and absurd for a girl to spend her savings just to buy a gift for a guy who barely talked to her, let alone know her name. But for an infatuated girl, everything is worth a try.


THE DAY OF the Winter Fair came. She is clad in her dress as white as snow and topped with a jumper to keep her warm. Paired with it is her winter boots. To say the least, she looks pretty and classy. Gone is the shy girl who used to be alone in the corner of libraries and coffee shops.

She arrives at the venue with confidence and joviality. Even her mates from the Book Club haven’t failed to notice it.

“You look lovely today,” one says. “True! She’s more lively and radiant,” the other agrees. All they receive from her is an inward blush and a shrug.

“Is there a certain someone for this transformation?” another one teases. She just shakes her head in denial, not really the talker type. ‘But if only they knew,’ she thinks to herself. With that, they start to open their book bazaar for the next hour.

After a successful book-selling, she couldn’t be more excited to look for a gift to give him. She has been waiting for this since three days ago and now as she wanders through the stalls, she thinks of a way to start up a conversation with him.

Should she say, ‘Hi! I’ve been a fan of your football team since the start of the season. You’re so amazing; I decided to buy you a gift’ or ‘Hello. You’re so dashing in your Council uniform all the time. I’m your admirer. Have this gift’?

‘Urghhh. Both are stalker-ish and immature,’ she reprimands herself.

Realising she have walked around the whole venue, she turns around to go back until she sees the best gift she could give him. ‘Screw with what I’m going to say. I need to buy this.’

Just as she approaches the lady in the stall, she has heard a group of girls squealing about five meters away. She tries to see what the commotion is about and there she sees him in his most casual white tee, leather jacket, black ripped jeans and boots. But still so dreamy and dashing. And not to forget, surrounded by his fangirls who seem to be asking him to sign the memorabilia’s they bought from the football club.

“Girls, please calm down. I will sign your stuff. Please just make way for my girlfriend,” he says to them and she feels her poise deflating as she deciphers the words.

His girlfriend—the A-class, tall and gorgeous cheerleader—comes near him with a hug and a light kiss in the lips, forgetting they are surrounded by a bunch of girls who has envy written in their eyes. She is one of those girls, too. Not being able to do a thing, she slowly turns around with her heart crushed in pain and disappointment.

“Are you going to buy something, Miss? This is one of a kind for your significant other, perhaps,” the lady in the stall asks seemingly unmindful of what’s happening.

“No, thank you,” she says as she walks away completely opposite of her earlier blithe attitude.


NOW, IS IT worth the pain and heartbreak to strike up a conversation?

‘Nope. Having a conversation with him is not the best idea,’ she mutters to herself. With that, she stands up and politely tells him, “The table’s all yours. I got to go.”

He looks up from his phone, “Oh. Is that so? Nice to meet you, —”

“Jasmine. My name is Jasmine,” she supplies.

“Jasmine,” she cherishes the way her name lingers in his mouth for she knows this will be the first and last time he will ever mention it.

She walks away from the table and just as she takes her fifth step, she overhears a girl approaching him saying, “Hi, babe. I miss you.”

She slowly turns her head to steal a gaze and there she sees, indeed, is the A-class, tall and gorgeous cheerleader—his girlfriend—as their lips lock completely heedless of the PDA.

She must be heartbroken, but no. She has seen this coming, anyway. Her earlier notions have confirmed it. To save herself from the future heartbreak, she turns on her heel and towards the front door she continues her pace as she goes out of the coffee shop with—ironically—a lighter heart. It looks as if a weight has been lifted off her chest.


(photo courtesy of


Caraphernelia \ka-rə-fə(r)-‘nēl-yə\ noun : a broken-heart disease that occurs whenever someone leaves you, but leaves all of their belongings behind

WAKING UP WITH the sudden nostalgic feeling next to what used to be your pillow. Going out of bed with the melancholic vibe. Brushing teeth with a jolt of sadness seeing there’s an extra toothbrush left by the sink. Eating the pain for breakfast. Taking a shower wishing the misery would be washed away. But seeing the vanilla-scented body wash brings back the fresh smell of your skin whenever I bury my nose in your neck. Looking at the mirror hoping these lips would form a smile someday, hoping these lips would meet yours again; but seeing that photo near the corner reminds me why I can’t. Driving to work thinking of you sitting at the passenger seat and I just want to run away from everything. Doing the job with the constant reminder of how it looked like the way it was before. A photo of us on top of my desk. Sitting at the cafeteria at lunch thinking of the phone calls and text messages sent and received. Taking the long way home just to forget the state of being alone. Lying on the bed as if you’re here next to me. This is my usual routine since the day you left. I’m getting used to it, in fact. I have long accepted that you chose not to be with me. However, can you blame me when the thought of you still continues to linger in my mind? Can you blame me if I can’t forget about you? My heart is shattered and I don’t bother to pick up the pieces anymore for I can’t afford the medicine. But please come back. No, not to fix my heart. Come back and bring with you our memories, the moments we shared, the pain, and the pieces of my heart. It continues to beat for you, anyway.


Written with the inspiration of the word itself, but there is also a Pierce the Veil song of the same title. If you want to listen to it, check this out.


GLOWING. THAT IS how I feel when I’m beside you. You are the one who gives me light. You are the cause of this spark radiating off me. Glowing. That is me whenever we’re together. The late-night sneaking off, the movie marathons, the ice cream dates downtown. Glowing. That is me whenever we argue over the pettiest things. Aside from bringing out the best in me, you can somehow bring out the worst in me, too. Glowing. But it is so worth it. At the end of the day, our differences make us closer to each other. Glowing. That is me until time came the time that you need to go. Distance keeps on tearing us apart. At first, we actually could fight it and keep the bond together. Eventually, you start confess you could do it no more. Glowing. That was me before you decided to let go. You said we need to move on with our separate lives. However, I could not and would not do it. Glowing. That was me when I followed you. If distance is the only thing keeping us apart then I’m lessening it. And that’s what I did. Glowing. That was me before I saw you with that certain someone. In a park thousand miles away from what you used to call home, you were holding hands and giving sweet looks on each other. I knew I was the past. Glowing. That was me until that day. Until the lights in me decided to fade away.


(featured image ctto)

A Letter to the Secret Crush

Note: This entry was originally posted on 14 February 2015.

Dear Secret Crush,

It feels so odd writing this letter to you. I know you won’t be able to read it because I’ll probably burn this letter after writing it, but I’ll continue anyway.

Happy Valentine’s Day!

How are you feeling? Are you happy today? Are you thinking of me too? Do you feel the same way? Are you okay?

This bunch of questions fills my mind. Tsk. I worry too much about you; it isn’t good for my health anymore.

I know it is not in my place to worry because, heck, we’re not even together (I don’t even know if you consider me as your friend), but these feelings I’ve developed for you are starting to lose control.

I love it when you talk to me even in technical terms such as school work and other related activities. I hear the beat of my heart getting louder whenever I’m near you. I even feel that sparks or butterflies in my stomach when I hear you talk about the most random things.

Yes, I see and hear you. I have eyes and ears, you know. I know you rub the back of your neck in your usual boyish manner when you are nervous. You bite the tip of your pen when you concentrate. You sway your legs to and fro in your seat when you intently listen to what the teacher says. You chuckle silently and shake your head at every joke you hear whether it’s funny or not.

It’s creepy, odd, and strange, I know. Others may consider it stalker-ish, but I can’t help it. My mind tends to notice the littlest things about you.

This is the main reason why I’ll never pursue you.

I’m afraid that if you knew, you laugh at my face to the extent that the whole school will surely know. I would be humiliated. I’m afraid that if you knew, we will lose touch even less than how little we talk to each other already. I’m afraid that if you knew, things would be more awkward for us (if that would still be possible). And lastly, I’m afraid to know that you don’t like me back. I hate rejection and I know there is a big chance you don’t reciprocate this feelings I have for you.

On the other hand, you might like me too. Nevertheless, the chances are slim. We’re not even friends to begin with. Plus, if you like me back, you might’ve pursued me since then.

I really want us to become friends. But I’m afraid that others may notice the feelings I have. I actually think your mates already know. They keep on teasing me about it. However, I need to deny it to keep my dignity intact. I tend to deny a lot of things, anyway so I guess it won’t be so bad.  Unless I confirm it myself, no one can tell about my exact feelings except me.

This letter is getting long. I have a lot of things to say but I’ll save it to myself. I would just be here at the back to support you secretly. I would just be here at the back to cheer for you in your football games. I would just be here at the back to be happy for you when you achieve things.

And when the time comes that you pursue someone in the future who is not me, I would still be happy for you. Love will always be that way. I must set you free to whomever you’ll be happy with. Even if it’s not with me.

See? After all these years that I’m hiding this sensation, only one dumb letter can make me realize that indeed, this is love. Imagine?

Well, I hope you’re always happy. Seeing you that way makes me glad, too, even if I’m not the reason why.

Before I end this letter, I want to tell you that I may not be able to hide this affection forever. It is not possible; but I won’t tell it to you immediately either. Maybe in the future, when I already get over you. I might actually just laugh it off whilst saying it. Nobody knows what tomorrow hold, so as much as possible; I’ll bury it for now.

This is a dreadful idea: writing you a letter a letter that you won’t ever receive. I’ve set this for myself so don’t worry about it. I will always be here secretly being in love with you.

It’s neither a goodbye nor a confession. It is a pathetic letter that comes from the heart.

Yours truly,

The Girl at the Back of the Class



(featured images courtesy of Warner Bros.)

Flood of Aide-Memoire

Note: This entry was originally posted on 13 November 2014.

“WHEN IT RAINS, it pours.”

This saying was proven true when the country was struck by one of the most destructive and catastrophic phenomena in the decade.

It was the 8th of November, a year ago. Our school declared suspension once the weather forecast announced the anticipation of the strongest typhoon to come.

I was awe-struck, to say the least. Glancing at the serene sky, not a raindrop poured on me but I could sense the different direction of the breeze. I was taken aback when I opened the television just to have witnessed my fellow countrymen from the Visayan part experiencing the great surge of Yolanda.

To say that the place was flooded was the understatement of the century. News reporters struggled to cover and shoot the location where establishments were destroyed, properties were wrecked, and the worst of all: lives were taken away.

I couldn’t imagine how I could manage to continue living a life if I was in their shoes. As a fellow Filipino citizen, what could I do than just sit here and offer sympathy to those who survived the storm?

It has been a year since the tragedy and although the obliteration can’t be fully refurbished (especially the loss of lives), it wouldn’t hurt to bring back what we could restore.

It was the 8th of November in the present year and I was sitting in front of the television once more taking in the flood of aide-memoire. The memories of how I somehow was able to contribute something for the survival of my fellow citizens in distress.

A penny is worth a shot for a thousand pennies can form a thousand bucks which, I believe, is a great contribution for them. After all, it’s the thought that counts.

The saying is brought up once again: “when it rains, it pours.”

I couldn’t help but smile as I view those generous people from all over the world lending a helping hand to our country. I couldn’t help but smile as I see my fellow countrymen awake with optimism and joy nonetheless of what has happened.

The pour of ruins isn’t a hindrance, indeed; because nothing can stop the flood of unity and will to offer one another hope and light.

Typhoon Yolanda might not be a great memory for all, but it sure is a challenge from above.

I am just glad we were able to prove our unity as a nation. After all, God will never give us problems we couldn’t solve.


(featured image courtesy of

Never Gonna Understand

Note: This entry was originally posted on 27 September 2014.

THE PERSON WITH more smiles

is the person with more heartaches.

~never gonna understand~

GROWING UP WITH a perfectionist mother, she was used to doing everything fast but flawless. She was used to doing everything tidy; no mess should be made, and nothing must be in disorder. She was used to following her mum’s orders all the time. She was used to how her mum controlled the situation all the time and how her mum controlled her every single actions, too.

At the age of 7, she started to wonder where her dad was. She asked her mother but all she received was a shrug and a short response, “Your father is dead.” Her inquisition grew so she always insisted her mother to tell her what really happened to her dad and how he died and she had gotten the most painful lecture. Thinking about it made her cry so she refused to elaborate it. After that, she kept taciturn and never said anything.

All she did was work hard to please her mum. Every day, after school, she would go straight to her room and start reviewing what they just have studied for the whole day. At Saturdays, she would meet with her ballet teacher no matter how much she had preferred to stay home and play with her Barbie dolls and play house. At Sundays, they would go to church with her mum redundantly repeating her words before the mass started, “Always be cautious. We don’t want others to notice my daughter acting like a clumsy, unsophisticated brat.”

When middle school started for her, it was the first time she came home with a B on her grade. She was so disappointed with herself for she knew her mum would be disappointed too. However, there was a voice on her mind saying that she knew she did everything, sometimes things just didn’t get to work out the way people wanted.

When her Mum knew about the hideous red mark called B on her answer sheet, her mum would say things like, “I am so disappointed.” “You never did anything good. Gosh, what’s happening to you?” “I think you need to get back to home school so for once you could focus on your studies. No toys for you for one week.”

She wasn’t startled when she heard those words from her mother. She saw it coming since the minute she saw that mark on her paper that morning. Although, hearing the actual words from her mum still hurt more than any pain that was inflicted. Her mother’s words always clung to her like sharp eagle’s claws and carved deep into her.

She never said anything because she knew she would receive a worse punishment, though removing her toys wasn’t counted as punishment because she never got to play with them, anyway.

When she was home schooled, she always tried to do great. She would always show her mother her works and A+ activities whenever her mum got home. But all she had received was sermons and lectures about how insensitive she was about not seeing that her own mother was knackered and stressed from work.

With that, she would just hide in her room and cry herself to sleep. She never said anything because she wanted to make her mum happy. She always pleased her mum and do all the things her mum liked her to do.

Though her existence in every aspect failed to meet her mum’s great expectations, she would still strive hard to be perfect in her mother’s eyes. She was almost perfect. But almost wasn’t enough.

Her freshman year came, and she finally got back to regular school. She couldn’t be more thankful enough that her home school teacher went abroad for a new job. She still thanked her though, and she was a little sad. But she was happier to finally have a taste of being a true student and teenager.

Being a regular student, she found it hard to adjust with her surroundings. Being isolated for two whole years was the reason why she couldn’t find new friends. Eventually, a group of girls noticed how she hid herself from other people. Being nice enough, they befriended her and that was how she found new colleagues in school.

She would hang out with them. Every day, at recess and lunch, she would be there whilst her newfound friends would talk and she would listen. She never shared her opinions and views for she was afraid they might judge her and notice how much of a failure she was.

Her so-called friends were there. Whenever she would come to school with slightly bloodshot eyes from countless nights she would cry to sleep, they were there. They would always tell her to stop crying because crying is for the weak. That was why whenever they ask her, she would always reply with “I’m okay.”

So she stopped crying. No matter how hard it is to be strong whenever her mum would reprimand her about her B grade, she refused to cry because she didn’t want to be weak. She would always hide her real feelings beneath those smiles.

As she was afraid of speaking her heart out, she started to keep a journal where her notions were immortalised. Her big, black journal knew how she felt. Her big, black journal knew what her real feelings were. Her big, black journal was there when she needed it the most. Her big, black journal knew that she wasn’t really okay, she was far from it.

During her senior year, she finally discovered why her mum refused to tell her what had happened to her dad. Turned out, he died of lung cancer and liver complications. He was a great father to her and husband to his mother until she was at the age of 2. He became friends with the wrong persons in the business industry and he ended up as a drug addict, alcoholic and excessive smoker.

With all these information, she somehow understood why her mother wanted her to be flawless and impeccable just like how her mum was. However, she wasn’t like her mother. Her mother’s genes weren’t completely passed on her that’s why she couldn’t be as perfect.

But then, she never said anything. She would be misunderstood, anyway. She just busied herself in Creative Writing Club. She would write about how she truly feels without utterly making it obvious that it was her own mess called her life.

She became partner with a lad who was one of the best writers in her school. They constantly met as they needed to work on their projects. It was three months since she knew him that she realized she became totally close to him. He knew her fears and insecurities. He knew her doubts and weaknesses.

He was someone who she could confess to. He was someone who said to her that crying is okay. He said that crying is human. He told her that it was okay to spill all emotions hidden beneath the smiles and laughs. He comforted her when nobody did. He was beside her when she was in her downtimes.

But her mother noticed their closeness so her mother instructed her to stay away from him. She never really knew why but she obliged. She loved her mother so much that she would please her just to make her happy.

Thing she knew about her mum was that she wasn’t great at showing affection but she would hear her mother pray at night for her own daughter’s safety and well-being every day. Maybe that was an enough excuse to lessen the pain she felt every single day. Her mum loves her. Her mum wasn’t just good at making her feel it.

It was graduation day and she knew that after that, she and her mum would transfer to another country for her college. She saw her friends. She bid her good-bye to them and vice versa. She saw him and immediately ran away. She couldn’t have the guts to face him.

“I love you,” Those three words that came from his pink, plump lips she could never forget. It was the eve of Valentine’s Day when she planned to meet him and end their friendship. What had really happened was him confessing his feelings for her. How she wanted to let him know that she reciprocated his feelings.

However, she never said anything. She just ran away and left him standing in the middle of the park. Anyway, she knew that she would leave him at the end of the school year.

Again, that was what she did at Graduation Day. She ran and quickly rode in their car whilst she knew he was there chasing after her to ask for an explanation. She fought hard not to look back, for she knew she wasn’t strong enough to leave him with unanswered questions. She knew that if she looked back, she would go down from the running vehicle and tell him what she really felt. So she sat back, refused to cry and continued on forgetting everything.

That was how it would end. She never said anything for she believed no one was ever going to understand. They’re never gonna understand how she felt no matter how hard she would explain. She stopped trying because the people who understood her weren’t approved by her mother, anyway.

All she did was try her best to be as perfect as what her mother wanted her to be. She became almost as perfect as what her mother preferred. The again, almost is never enough. Something was missing in her life and although she would look okay, she may look okay; nevertheless, being okay was far from being happy and she knew why she couldn’t be.