The Art of Holding On (Book 3)

Voice004.mp4

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I should mention that Andre, my male fictional character, is a fisherman, and this location shift urges us to be near the beach, our special place. A beach holds so many memories for the two of us and I could not say which one is the happiest, not when we are here, again, walking side by side on the shore, fingers intertwined, under the moon I fancied so much during my younger days.

You love the moon.

Dati.

Eh ngayon?

Hindi na masyado.

Bakit?

I just like to use her poetically because she's beautiful, you know.

Her. She. Babae ang moon?

Bakit, gusto mo ba lalaki? Some girls liked to be compared to the moon, and using the moon in a poetic sense seems so feminine.

I can't be your moon?

You wanted to be my moon?

Hindi naman, nagtatanong lang.

You're already everything to me so don't compare yourself to something as simple as the moon.

Talo na naman ako. You're better at words so you're better at doing magic to my heart. Okay, if I am your moon, I wanted to shine my brightest for you.

No need.

Bakit na naman?

Shining or not, I'd love you all the same.

So figuring that out.. you're saying through my ups and downs, you'd still take me?

Yeah. You're getting better, Alden.

Only with you.

We sit on the shore, and watch the patient waves hitting the fine sand. I run my fingers through his hair, and although I tried so hard to fight the tears since the other night's events, they flow freely from my eyes.

Bakit ka naiiyak?

Because I wanted to kiss you.

He laughs adorably for a middle-aged man that he should be but isn't.

Bakit ka naiiyak palagi kapag gusto mo akong halikan?

Because I know I shouldn't.

I lift my body a little from the sand, I cup his face using both of my hands, and I swiftly steal a kiss. It isn't hideous as stealing, though, because within that brief moment, my heart, who had been writing using dead language since we parted ways, wished for a happy ending I know I couldn't give and have.

We sit there for a while, in silence. I rest my head on his shoulder, and stare at the moon for a long, long time. Hey there, moon. I actually have a confession to make and keep it between the two of us, okay? For a very long period in my life, I wanted to be you. I wanted to be as pretty as you; I wanted to bring the same smiles that you do whenever people are lost in darkness and they see you as the only hope. I wanted to be as mythical as you; the reason why I wrote you several times in my stories. Hey, moon. Thank me, okay? It's a privilege for you. But who am I kidding? I know it is really a privilege for me to write something – or someone, since I treat you as a human, or an ethereal goddess during the times I have worshiped your existence – as mythical as you. And you have always been wonderful, flawless.