Sometime In July (2024 edition)

Chapter Three

CHAPTER ONE

I've been in love once and I don't think I'll ever be again.

People don't believe me when I say it. They try to fashion my whole life behind me, creating their own stories on how I am able to say those words. Everyone close to me has their own story to tell. It happened sixteen years ago. Some people let go, move on, and eventually change. But I, apparently, didn't.

What happened to me isn't simple. It can't be recapped into one uncomplicated paragraph. However, it was also not as extraordinary as anyone might expect. Perhaps it was somewhere in the middle.

It was as common a love story as many people have experienced. Why? Because we've known each other since we were little children.

Losing someone very dear is a tragedy, to say the least. Whether it was for another person or another reason, or even death, it leaves behind a trail of tears, sorrows, and regrets. The song of birds and the scent of daffodils wither away in that single moment. Most of the time, after the relationship is over and the lovers have realized their own mistakes, they find themselves reminiscing about the past and wishing to go back in time to somehow do things differently. I felt those kinds of things, too.

I remember every minute detail of our moments, cherishing them over and over in my heart and mind, feeling the sweet but temporary joy they bring to me.

But as quickly as the memories come, I also immediately realize that I'm living in a make-believe world. And again, suddenly, the song of birds and the scent of daffodils wither away, stinging my chest with the most painful hurt I thought no other human being would ever feel.

Gordon Heights was a place of beauty. We grew up there. There, the air coming down the hills was sweet and the leaves were so fresh that your senses indulged with every moment that passed. The sun rose like a king in the morning and you can feel dewdrops tremble on your skin. For us, it was paradise.

I was still a small child when I first felt the feeling of love. She was with me my whole childhood. I can't remember someone so dear other than my mom. It was always quiet every time I met her in the morning. The trees met, bending over the narrow road, and the spots of the sun on the ground moved with the shifting of the branches, like a conscious caress. We always walked through that way every morning going to school. Dead leaves streamed down from its trees, though they were not green, they stood out on the asphalt road so bright it hurt the eyes.

A plump gray pigeon plunged off a window ledge and soared right before us. In the thin morning mist, small children waited, their hands stuffed with breadcrumbs, rice, and crackers. Little maya birds joined the feast. Joggers in spandex and sweats pounded past us, splashing through shallow puddles left by residents watering their plants at sunrise. But nothing really caught my attention. Except her.

I love her. I love everything about her. I love her scent. I love the way she walked. I love the way she laughs and how she carries her ponytail. I love the way her lips tremble in the cold, damp morning as she speaks. It was simple. I just loved her. But I never realized it then. What I knew was I feel good, very good, every time I'm with her. I was still a small child.

For a thirty-six-year-old like me, reminiscing has become a skill, an art. Most of the people around my age whom I know, although I'm not really sure how their personal lives are, project an aura of success, solidarity, and sureness about what they have become. I find it difficult to understand why I, of all people, still feel this failure within me. I have become one of the most successful sportswriters in the Philippines, having been all over the world with the most famous people one could ever imagine. If that is what everybody defines as success, then why do I still feel unfulfilled and incomplete?