Rewrite the Stars

7-Year Itch

I don't know when I started to feel this way about Vince and I.

Was it only two years ago when I yearned, not just wanted, but truly, deeply hoped for our happily ever after?

Vince is the subject of any girl's dreams. He was extremely good-looking, with skin the color of ivory, almost luminous, like you can see his veins underneath when you look closely. His eyes were deep brown. It reminded me of dark roast coffee with a slight tinge of milk.

He was mysterious, the kind of man who can easily stand out in a room, but would keep to himself. He rarely talks about himself or gives anything away. He was confident, but chose to be on the sidelines.

Don't we all fall for the mysterious type?

It's been seven years, a roller coaster ride, which I thought was the ride of my life.

Yet, here I am, wanting another life.

No. Yearning for another life.

What would I give to take those seven years back?

As I stared at the ceiling while lying on my back in this familiar bed in my apartment, the only witness to my sleepless nights and countless tears,  my mind wandered to where it all began.

"Kitch? Have you seen the illustration of your article? It's pretty good." My best friend since the second grade and my number one fan, Lana, broke the silence as I was reading through the editorial of the school paper, The Torch.

"Nope. Not, yet. Let me check." I flipped through the pages and found my article "Nation Building: The Purpose and Fallacies of Generation X by Kirsten Aragon Lopez, Feature Editor".

It was an extremely bold drawing, the kind that will bring out the patriot in anyone. My finger wandered to the drawing of the Philippine flag. It felt real, like I can imagine it proudly flailing in the wind.

I cannot hide my admiration. "Hmm. You're right, Lana! This looks great! This guy's new... Vincent De Leon... Let me check with Eric."

I hastily walked the hallway to our command center, my happy place, the one place you will find me when I am not in my classes or buried in books, The Torch office.

"Hey, Chief!" I called my Editor-in-Chief Eric's attention. "Who's the new guy?"

Before Eric could respond, a tall, young man, about 5'10" stood up from one of the desks and approached.

He walked over to me confidently. He's not the bookish nerdy type who would normally hangout at The Torch.

"Hi! 'Name's Vince. I'm the new Graphic Artist, Mass Comm, Batch 2002. You must be Kitch..." He extended his hand for a shake which I took.

It was a firm handshake. I was instantly impressed by his confidence.

"Nice meeting you, Vince. Kitch, Business Ad, Batch 2000. Welcome to the Torch." I gave him a warm smile.

I carefully looked him over.

Dark brown polo shirt that accentuated his eyes. Faded jeans covering those long legs. Loafers. Casual, not typical for a college student who would rather be in their Chuck Taylors.

He was too thin for my taste. Or maybe he was just too tall. But his skin was like alabaster, like I can see through them.

Hmm. Not bad, not bad at all.

And he was an artist, just like me!

See, that was the beginning of our fairy tale, not that I believed in those. But that was our beginning.

I wrote and he drew.

We saw more of each other at The Torch. He'd keep to himself, spending hours and hours just drawing.

I caught myself staring at him in more than one occasion. I was definitely interested.

I noticed him alright. The way he stretches those legs under the desk when he's tired, or the way his eyebrows arch when he's thinking of a great idea. The way he rubs his knuckles after finishing one of his drawings or how his eyebrows furrow forming a letter "V" at the top of his nose when he is in deep thought.

I saw the little things.

He didn't seem to mind me, though.

Lana said I had to try harder. She knew I was more than just interested. I would have asked him out if I wasn't so old-fashioned.

She would invite him for lunch or coffee, anything that would make him spend a little more time with us. Uhm, with me.

I made it a point to avoid him, avoid singling him out, lest I give too much away.

Until that one day.

It was raining and I had to run from my Marketing 150 class to The Torch office. I was wearing a V-neck white shirt and worn-out jeans that made my waist look smaller. I was all wet from the rain.

He was alone. He looked up when he saw me, paused and cleared his throat. He did not say anything.

I went to my desk, rummaging for a towel to dry me off.

He was beside me before I realized, holding up his jacket.

"I can see through your shirt, Kirsten. Please wear this." He said nervously trying to avoid my eyes.

I almost died of humiliation. I grabbed his jacket and ran outside after calling out an embarrassed "Thanks." 

I tried to dismiss my humiliation the following day by acting naturally.

But it was a turning point for him.

I don't know if it was how the fabric of my white shirt clung to the top or my breast, or my lacy black underwear, or how my flat stomach was almost visible while the fabric clung to my skin when I was too wet the day before, but he finally saw me as a woman, a woman who piqued his interest.

He was different after that. I was no longer just Kitch, the Feature Editor. I was Kitch, a desirable potential girlfriend, someone who can rock his world with a brain that goes with a killer body.

He was interested alright. And he made sure I knew.

We started hanging out in groups, but that soon changed to just the two of us going out on dates.

Before long, things started to fall in the right direction. It was natural for that relationship to develop into a deeper and meaningful one. No one was surprised when I became his girlfriend.

You see, that was our world. And it was good.

But all good things come to an end.

What happened to us? Is this how it ends?

I fell asleep with more questions than answers.