If it’s any consolation, she did look at me.
She was in a pink dress again. Why did she have to wear dresses when she could be in a plain white tee and faded jeans? As she flipped a strand of her jet black hair, I unconsciously wondered why she couldn’t just tie it into a ponytail. That way, she wouldn’t have to flip it over and over, as if flaunting its shine. Although meters away, I could tell that she was wearing a sweet perfume that would remind one of delicate daffodils. Why did she have to be in an inviting scent when she could have stuck to the conventional aroma of newly washed fabrics?
Why? Because it was nature’s way of satisfying my insatiable yearning to just stare at her.
For a split second, I thought and wanted to believe that I saw her look at me. But just as instantly, she rolled her eyes. Without a doubt I knew that she was dismissing the idea of her, a pretty-faced Dean’s Lister, talking to me, a nobody. I bowed my head and continued scribbling in my notebook – at least it wasn’t the desk this time – an inclination that served as my refuge ever since I’ve known her, or ever since I realized that we could never be together.
“My sweet weakness,” I wrote. “Won’t you come with me? I’ll help you escape your fancy and superficial world. Faded photographs I will hand to make you see that black and white could also carve colorful memories. Let me take you to a place of deeper happiness and show you that melancholy is not that sad after all.”
Glancing again, I saw her hair covering slightly the sides of her soft face. Her smile was brightening up the world—my world that is. She was probably beaming at yet another teen flick movie she and her friends were talking about. It was funny how she seemed to enjoy petty conversations like that.
But it was even funnier how I enjoyed just looking at her.
Looking at her was all I was capable of doing. There was no way I could step up and tell her how she unwittingly puts me under a spell with her every move. After all, she’s this beauty and brains, and I’m just a freak in dirty Chucks.
If it’s any solace, he did look at me.
He was in black shirt, worn-out pants, and dirty Chuck Taylor’s again. “Ramones” his shirt was saying. I heard it’s a band. I didn’t really care though. Why couldn’t he just be in normal, designer shirt and clean sneakers like any other guy? Once again alone in the corner of the room, he stared blankly at the space between his desk and the floor. Goodness, he was oblivious of the world around him.
Then again, his mysterious demeanor was once again filling my unquenchable desire to just stare at him.
For a split second, I thought and wanted to believe that I saw him look at me. I rolled my eyes, shrugging off the idea that he would be interested in making acquaintances with me. There was no way he would talk to me. Perhaps I was just another goody-goody who’s trying too hard to look good in a pink dress while struggling to land in the Dean’s List. I continued laughing along with my friends about some petty teen flick, which I didn’t even understand why I waste my time on. My attention was with the conversation, but my mind was subconsciously soaring away again.
“Oh how great it would be if I get to join you in your world. A world where melancholy and nostalgia are as normal as having flu. A world where I could get away from my usual day of gossips and lip gloss. I want to get lost with you in whatever sad music we will be dancing to—if we even dance at all.”
Taking a quick glance, I saw that his hair was covering his eyes as he religiously jotted down something in his notebook. At least, he wasn’t hitting on the poor desk this time. He seemed to be living inside the words he was scribbling. He was probably engrossed in shutting out the nuisance my friends and I were creating. It was funny how he seemed to keep himself away from other human beings.
But it was even funnier how I enjoyed just looking at him.
Looking at him was all I was capable of doing. There was no way I could step up and tell him how he amazes me with his mystifying character. After all, he’s this deep poetic guy and I’m just a confused damsel in ballerina shoes.
* This article first appeared in The Philippine Star in 2009.