Good morning. I can see the look of surprise on your face and I know that is because I am in the kitchen. Don’t get too ahead of yourself, darling. I’m not making breakfast or anything like that. Do you smell food? Do you see anything that resembles food? No? That’s not what I’m here for.

Yes, you’re still in charge of cooking. There’s no need to be overly dramatic about it, honey. You’ve been in charge for years. The whole of 5 years that we’ve been together. 4 years, if you feel like counting those couple of months in which I tried to be a little domestic during our first year together. You do remember what happened right? Yeah, I’d rather not think about it as well. Well, hey, I’m glad your bowel movement is back to normal.

What? Oh, right. Why am I here again?

I’ve been sulking.

The oven is turned on not because I plan to leave the earth Sylvia Plath-style. Don’t expect cookies to magically appear as well. I just like the heat that it produces and how it warms me up. Do you ever think our apartment’s way too cold? Sometimes, I do. No. Most of the time. I like walking around barefoot and during the first few years, I could. Now, it’s just dreadfully difficult. The floor is cold as ice. See? Try it. It will freeze you to death.

This place is extremely cluttered and cold.

Look at our bookshelf. Remember how we used to stay up late just to arrange them? Alphabetically, autobiographically, geographically—depending on our mood. How come we stopped doing that? That was so much fun from what I remember.

Hey, funny story. The other day, I found my old purse. I forgot that I kept all our tickets in there—tickets to shows, movies, and events. We stopped going to those as well. Together, I mean. I still go to shows. Just last week, I paid a lanky kid fifty dollars for his tickets to Bon Iver. It was a magical night and I sort of wished you were there. I remember when we’d embrace and sway along our favorite songs. You would kiss my forehead and I’d feel like the luckiest girl in the room.

Remember when you’d stop whatever you were doing just to point to your tiny radio and say, “It’s our song.”

What else. Movies. We watched a lot of them. I’d cry in all of the stupid parts and you’d wipe my tears away. You held the popcorn and the beverage while I concentrated on the screen. Last week, I watched a screening of Schindler’s List on my own. I cried my eyes out and I felt what it was like to be truly alone after so long.

I’ve been bonding with myself for months. Or has it been a year?

How are you?

I’m sulking because I want to.

I’m just wondering when we stopped being lovers. We live together, but we rarely do anything with each other. You still take up the space beside me in bed, but the separation is clear. It’s one huge wall that I can’t seem to destroy.

You don’t even hold my hand anymore.

Is it because I got old? You got old too. I mean, look at your head! Your receding hairline! I pretty much look the same as I did the day you first met me. Sure, my arms got a little bigger and I may have gained some flab in the stomach area. But those are minor details compared to what changed in you.

Yes, I’m wearing nothing underneath this shirt. I know it’s your favorite, but it was dark and I had to put something on. Do you want it back? Seriously, you can have it. Here.

Why are you looking at me like that? Has it been long enough for the sight of my naked body to startle you like that? Should I take that as a compliment?

I am trying to tell you something important here.

This is me. All of me. I am right in front of you like I’ve always been.

Why can’t you see?

Once, I had a neighbor named Leo. He was seventeen while I was fifteen. We would meet outside my house at seven in the evening almost everyday. His father worked in a bookstore and would occasionally bring him stuff home. Leo liked to show me these things. One night, it was a map. He asked me to bring a notebook, a pen, and a flashlight. We walked quietly to the park that was only a minute away, but that night it felt longer. I was beginning to feel differently about Leo. I had been for a few days then. I started questioning—was he just a neighbor? Just a boy? Would there be other boys like him in the future?

He ran to our special spot that was marked by a tiny plant near the biggest willow tree and spread the blanket across the wormy green. That park was a filthy one, but we had nowhere else to go. Then he spread the enormous map. We laid flat on our stomachs as we tried to place ourselves in the world. We’re just like two ants, Ella, he told me. He brought tiny pins to mark places he’d been and places he dreamt of going. Red pins mean urgent, he said. It means I absolutely have to go there. Whether my parents like it or not! He took one red pin and pinned it on top of Alaska. I wondered for so long why Leo chose that place, one so cold and so white. It seemed so empty. But I never got to ask.

We got bored with the map and decided to examine the night sky instead. The willow tree blocked my view so he described what he could see for me. I’m right up there, he whispered as he pointed his finger to the vast expanse. Leo. If you need me, look up. I’m right there, see? I’m a common constellation. I read that in a book. My eyes were already closed then. I couldn’t see a damn thing so I resolved to imagine how Leo, the constellation looked like. I thought of stupid things: unicorns, hearts, maybe horses too.

 The next day, I woke up alone in the park. The white blanket was still there, covering me. But the map was gone. Then, a note: Emergency.

I called up his house and no one answered. All day long. I asked my mom, Where are the Tellers? She simply shrugged and said nothing. I never really found out why he left and where he’d gone. Just like that.

After my eighteenth birthday, I decided to visit the park. Our spot still had the plant, but it was dead. No matter. With a tiny blanket underneath, I laid down in the space he used to occupy. I realized the boundlessness of the sky and it made me sad. I studied the constellations without really knowing what I was looking for. The forms made no sense. All I knew was that I had to find one in particular: Leo.

That night I felt the saddest I’d ever been in my life.

I went home defeated. Constellations meant nothing to me then. They mean nothing to me now.  All I know is that once I loved a boy named Leo who disappeared and became one with the stars.

The world breeds billions and billions of people every year. Nobody should expect every single one to be happy. The number is always odd and therefore, someone always gets left out. Amidst a sea of happy hearts, one is sickly and tired and angry. Look at the city, look at those feet tirelessly wandering through the streets. Directions are uncertain, motives are insignificant. Mechanically walking about as if life’s meaning is out there walking along with them. Everyone hopes to bump into it. There’s anxiety. A crucial need for saving. It can’t be helped.

“Okay, I’m going to hang up now. You won’t love me anyway even if I stay on the line.”

“You’re free to do what you want, darling.”

“See? I hate it when you say things like that. Why can’t you at least pretend that you care?”

“It’s four in the morning, Georgia. Get some sleep. We’ll talk again later. You know my number.”

“What if that stupid boy Mitchel answers again?”

“He won’t. We’ve got caller ID. I’ll know for sure when it’s you.”

“Sometimes I wish you were real.”

“Oh, but I am. I’m always here. I’m as real as anyone else in the world.”

“No, you’re not. You’re just an idiot who listens to people for a living. None of this is real.”

“Trust me. I’m real.”

“Fuck you.”

How sad is the heart left out by the world? It beats for nothing. It wants to die and survive at the same time. If you really think about it deeply, it should be admired. It deserves recognition of some sort. It’s bound to live alone forever, but it tries and tries. It’s been stomped on by so many, but still, it tries. There is hope in it. That there’s one other heart in the world that’s meant to find it. But. We know that day will never come. So, why?

I remember very well the last time. There were red sheets, pillows, and alcohol. A shirtless you lying motionless, smelling of pineapple and cigarettes. It’s so clear to me still that I feel like I’m there again. In your studio apartment with one king size bed and no couch. Hardwood floors, white walls and ceiling, barely lit, and filthy. The feeling: apart from the many questions in my head including, “How did this happen?”, there was also, “Please let this be real.”

“How many times have you fallen in love?”

“How is this going to help you, darling?”

“Just answer the question.”

“Plenty of times. I’ve loved so many women in my life that I know what it feels to be alive and dead at the same time.”

“Then you’re lucky.”

“Why do you think so?”

“I’ve loved so many, too. But no one has ever loved me back.”

“But I didn’t say that any of them loved me back. Still, they made me feel things and surely, that must mean I’m alive.”

“For some reason, I refuse to believe you.”

“You’re a cynic pretending to be a romantic. Nothing will ever please you.”

It’s a baffling thing—existing without anything. Not even a set of instructions. Everyday, you wake up without knowing what it’s for. Why not sleep your life away instead? Why not jump off a cliff? Drive recklessly, run across the freeway with a blindfold on, tie a rock onto your feet and jump into the ocean, stop breathing.

“A letter. I love letters.”

“Who wrote you, Georgia?”

“Someone from long ago.”

“Well, let’s hear it.”

“Sorry. It’s private.”

“Well, what do you call me for?”

“That’s also none of your business.”

Georgia, I remember the days when I was fifteen and you were seventeen. It was a small town made up of less than a thousand people. I was reading a book by Jane Austen that you hated. You sat beside me and smirked. “It’s about love,” I said. You looked away. “Everything’s about love, Anne. You just have to know how to read between the lines.” You smiled and I only remember falling into your blue eyes—eyes that revealed a deeper sadness than I’d ever seen before. It was sickening. But I stared until tears slid down my face. I tried not to blink, afraid that you’d disappear and then none of it would be real. But I did and then you were gone.

“Peter, I’m not real.”

“What are you saying, dear?”

“Stop calling me dear. Or darling. I am not real.”

“Would you like to talk about it?”

“All we ever do is talk about it.”

“I don’t understand. I’m sorry.”

“That’s what I get for five bucks an hour, I suppose.”

“You don’t have to be so mean. Are you lonely?”

“I’ve always been. Weren’t you listening?”

“But there’s so much to live for. What about that letter?”

“Anne. I could have saved her. I had the chance, but I didn’t do anything.”

“Who’s Anne?”

“The loneliest girl in the world.”

“How do you know?”

“I broke her heart.”

I.
I walk faster than anyone I know. I’m not in a hurry. Just tired of life’s stillness and misery. I rush past kids by the street asking for some change or the cup of coffee in my hand, past troubled co-workers bellowing about meager salaries, past miserable employees handing out unwanted fliers on the newly erected condominium by the bay. I walk so fast, I can feel the wind slicing through my skin.

II.
Once, I met a boy the same way
girls usually do. I built
my whole world with his promises,
his love as base. He was my rock
while I was just a season.

III.
I once tried to run. Joined a silly marathon. I learned that walking fast is different from running. And that running for a long time is hard. Which is why I decided to stop. I tried, but I couldn’t. I wasn’t ready. Every kilometer felt like a marker of so many things I’ve tried to run from in the past. And every sweat that dripped from my body reminded me of you and me, together under an oak tree, reading to each other under the merciless sun.

IV.
He told me, “You are beautiful.”
I believed him. Then he told me,
“Goodbye.” I insisted he stay.
Because I am stubborn and weak,
I wasted away my youth and
what was left of my spirit
in waiting.

V.
My love, this is what I’ve become: I exist without presence. No one listens, no one notices. I shout in pain silently, tearless cries of pain. My teeth are crooked, my eyes are half-blind. There is beauty around me, but I cannot see it. I try to read our favorite book, but its pages have turned blank. My skin sags and wrinkles a little more each day. I cannot even feel my own touch. And yet. My heart remains the same. It aches and aches, but it refuses to die. It is my predicament.

VI.
I held you close to me
and whispered, “You smell like
my favorite flower.” I kissed
the skin under your ears. It was
smooth and promising. I laughed
and you asked me why. I said,
”I don’t have a favorite flower.”

VII.
The lamplight is flickering. As I reach for my crook, I accidentally push a framed picture off the wooden table. Shards of glass scatter on the floor. There is a picture and I take it without turning it over. My hands quiver violently, nerves threatening to burst, as I rip it into tiny pieces of nothing.

There are maps, then there are guide books. While I’d rather navigate my way through strange cities with the convenience of a GPS device, you, always the map guy, like doing things the manly way — simple for you, but ten times more complicated for me.

“Giant buddha? Where?” you ask the man cozily lounging on the hot pavement. Presumably a homeless old man who also may not understand much English. At least, the way you are speaking it. “Where buddha?”

I laugh at your grammatically incorrect inquiries. Do we lose sense of what is right in foreign places? Do we speak in funny languages just because we assume they can’t speak ours?

“Giant buddha? Statue? Where?” The old man groans and tries to kick you away. He misses, but only because he’s too old and slow. Frankly, you deserve a nasty kick. You speak like an idiot and the man responds in a way anyone would to an idiot.

“Try speaking normally and maybe people would understand you for once,” I say as I run out of patience. How hard is it to find a big fucking buddha? How many giant buddhas are there in this country?

I start walking towards a 30s looking woman near the stoplight. I smile as I approach her. Surprisingly, she freaks out and crosses the street at once. You laugh stupidly at me.

What a couple we are. A couple of idiots.

“Damn it. If the buddha’s so gigantic,” I say as I kick the lampost and in turn, hurt my foot badly. “Why don’t we just keep on walking? I’m sure we’ll see the tip of its head or something, at the very least.”

You shake your head. “We’ve lost hours already. We might lose the whole day if we do it your way.”

“And how far has your way gotten us so far?”

A couple of tourist Caucasians, probably in their 50s, passes by. Your face brightens up and I recognize the look on your face. I immediately cover my face, anticipating humiliation yet again.

“Buddha? Where?”

The couple looks confused. I couldn’t believe my ears. “There are millions of buddhas here, sweetie. Take your pick.” The sweet old woman smiles and moves on. I proceed to hate my life.

You’re a stubborn man and while I may have found that endearing at first, I swear that it drives me insane now. Once upon a time, you listened. You would ask me what I wanted for lunch, where I wanted to go for vacation, how I pictured my life to be five or fifteen years from now.

Seven years have passed. Where are we again?

In a foreign land, with a foreign language. You also seem like a foreign man to me now. After years of trying to know who you are, inside and out.

Together, we are lost. Backpacks full of maps and guide books we can barely understand. Also, we are stuck.

You run towards me from who-knows-where. I didn’t even notice that you left at all. ”It’s in another island. We can get to the terminal by bus, then to the island by cable car. Amazing, isn’t it?” Your smile reeks of pride. This is your shining moment.

We ride a bus to the terminal and when we get there, we find the longest lines made up of hundreds of people all waiting to see the gigantic buddha. This frustrates me. And it frustrates you that it frustrates me.

“This is what traveling is all about, love.” You try to cheer me up, but you fail. I stand behind you quietly. “Now let’s get in line to see that fucking buddha and get this over with. Shall we?”

I follow you to the end of the nearest line. Just to get this over with.

Even I seem foreign to myself now.

“These lines on my palm,” you said as you turned to face me. “They help me find my way back to you. Every time I stray, trust that I will go back to you.”

What do you say to that? How do you say that while you don’t necessarily believe him, you hope it’s the truth?

I shrug and smile. What an awkward moment between us. Lately, we’ve been finding ourselves in these unfortunate situations.

There is dead air between us.

We dispose of heavy words too easily without meaning them. The words “love” and “promise”, we are too loose with them. Once upon a time, they would trigger a blissful sigh or two. Inside, an explosion of so many possible futures.

Now, only heartbreak and grief.

Do we even know what they mean? Why don’t we bother with the dictionary anymore? It would save us a lot of hoping and wishing. Mend millions of broken hearts.

Those fine lines on your palm — a map to my heart. If I had a choice, I would scrape them off and lead you somewhere else. A place a little less fragile, a little less used to you.

But as it happens, this is my destiny. And I am yours.

Let me tell you about my days: They’re not interesting. I don’t go out that much and when I do, it’s just to read a book in my favorite cafe. I don’t like coffee and I never will, but I like the warmth of being in a quiet place that brews coffee nonstop, with people who seem to have fooled themselves that a $5 coffee is any better than the cheaper kind.

Sometimes, I watch people do the common things done in a cafe: read books, abuse the free internet, hold hands, talk on the phone, cry in front of friends, cry in front of significant others, get lost in their thoughts, leave coffee stains, wait, hope.

I never get particularly interested in anyone because no one is usually interesting enough for me.

Well. Until it happened.

A boy, or a man but he looks so much more like a boy to me, walked in. He bought the smallest and cheapest coffee in the house, settled in a corner table and started reading. What interested me at first was the book he was reading because I had read it before and loved it immensely. The second was how he left the cafe without even taking a single sip of his coffee. Third was how I sort of whispered to myself, because I am weird like that, that maybe he was meant for me. Finally, after years of patronizing this cafe with shitty coffee (I’ve taken a sip or two), the higher power had taken pity on me and had decided to give me some sort of loyalty award.

But no. That’s not what he meant to me. Not a reward, not a consolation. More like a discovery. A gift.

Why do I feel like I’ve found something irreplaceable? Something real?

It pained me as well as surprised me that I was capable of such infallible hallucinations. I didn’t know I still had it in me after so many disappointments and broken promises. I’m kind of an old-timer, but I’ve stayed strong. Look at me now. You won’t even notice the thousand scars of my heart.

These thoughts drifted me away from my book completely. I was so engrossed with my imaginary love story that it made me realize how much time I’ve wasted on involving myself in other people’s lives, stories, and heartaches. All the people I’ve watched, all the characters in the books I’ve read — they live the life I once wished for myself. And maybe it’s not too late.

But I was. I let him slip away. He never visited the cafe again. It must have been the coffee, or maybe he was just visiting. I will never find out.