Echos of Broken Heart

The air hung heavy with the scent of rain-soaked earth, a familiar aroma that always brought back a flood of memories. I stood there, a solitary figure against the backdrop of the bustling city, my gaze fixed on the flickering neon signs that mirrored the turmoil within me.

It all started with a lie, a carefully crafted fabrication woven by my parents. They, in their misguided attempt to shield me from the "unconventional," had forced me to suppress my true feelings for a girl in seventh grade. They insisted that a girl like her was meant for a boy, and so, I succumbed to their pressure. I fell in love with a boy, a love that mirrored the societal norm, a love that was supposed to make me feel whole.

But the charade was short-lived. The constant pressure of living a lie, of pretending to be someone I wasn't, took its toll. I found myself in a whirlwind of emotions, a rollercoaster ride of arguments and reconciliations. The boy, my supposed soulmate, became a source of both comfort and frustration.
Then came the inevitable clash. My parents, sensing a shift in my affections, made their disapproval known. They didn't explicitly tell me they disliked him, but their actions spoke volumes. The tension in the air was palpable, a silent storm brewing beneath the surface. I couldn't bear the weight of their disapproval, the feeling that I was betraying them, so I broke it off.

The years that followed were a blur of longing and regret. We remained in contact, a fragile connection that flickered with the promise of a rekindled flame. Three years of stolen moments, of laughter and shared dreams, became a cherished memory, a reminder of what could have been.

But fate had other plans. My father, in a fit of rage, discovered our clandestine meetings. The consequences were swift and severe. I was grounded, and my social life was effectively erased. The weight of his anger, the fear of his disapproval, was a crushing burden. My skin, a canvas of my internal turmoil, erupted in a rash of stress-induced eczema. The irony wasn't lost on me. They had forced me to embrace a heteronormative path, only to turn against me when I dared to follow it.

I became the black sheep of the family, a silent rebel living under their roof. I obeyed their rules, but my heart remained defiant. The charade continued a performance for their benefit.

Then, a glimmer of hope. I met her, a girl who captured my heart with her infectious laughter and sparkling eyes. It started as a crush, a silent admiration that blossomed into something deeper. I confessed my feelings, and for a fleeting moment, it felt like the universe was aligning. But the joy was short-lived. She couldn't reciprocate my feelings but offered the solace of friendship.

The months that followed were a torturous dance of hope and despair. I found myself drawn to her, my heart yearning for a connection that seemed out of reach. I stalked her classroom, my eyes searching for her, my heart pounding with every fleeting glimpse. I even dreamt of her, a dream so vivid, so real, that it left me breathless.

Then, a chance encounter. A classmate invited me to climb a mountain, and I, in a moment of desperation, extended the invitation to her. She agreed, offering the comfort of her home as a place to rest before the climb. My parents, swayed by the presence of my friends, reluctantly agreed.

That night, I found myself in her home, enveloped in the warmth of her family's embrace. We were about to retire for the night, and I assumed I would be sleeping in the guest room. But she, in a move that both surprised and thrilled me, insisted I sleep in her room with her.

The night was a whirlwind of emotions. We lay in bed, the air thick with unspoken desires. She came close, her arms wrapping around me in a comforting embrace. The intimacy of the moment, the unspoken longing in her eyes, sent shivers down my spine. Then, she kissed me, a soft, tender kiss that ignited a fire within me. I responded instinctively, my lips meeting hers in a passionate embrace.

At that moment, everything felt right. She confessed her feelings, admitting that she had been harboring a secret crush on me for months. We were both consumed by the intensity of our newfound love, a love that defied the constraints of societal norms.

After graduation, she moved to Manila to pursue her studies, leaving me behind in a world that suddenly felt empty without her. Months of long-distance were a test of our commitment, but we persevered, our love a beacon guiding us through the darkness.

Then, the news shattered me. She returned home, pregnant. Her brother, in a moment of desperation, reached out to me, his voice heavy with sorrow. My world crumbled around me.

I found myself drawn to the familiar comfort of a local band, seeking solace in the rhythm of their music. But fate had a cruel twist in store. There she was, the same girl I had fallen in love with, the girl who had shown me the beauty of the world.

We talked that night, our conversation a mix of tears and apologies. I found myself begging her to take me back, to let me love her child as my own. But she was resolute, her heart already pledged to another.

The pain was unbearable, a wound that refused to heal. I retreated into the shadows, watching her from afar, my heart aching with a love that would never be.

Years have passed, and I'm still here, a woman on the cusp of thirty, haunted by the ghosts of relationships past. I've learned that love can be a cruel mistress, a force that can both elevate and destroy. I've learned that societal expectations can be a prison, a cage that traps us in a world of lies and deceit.

And I've learned that sometimes, even when we beg for a second chance, fate has other plans.

It happened seven years ago. I'm 29 now, but the memories still echo in my mind.

In another life, I hope the faith is within us

'till we met again aly.