The warmth of the midnight air welcomes me. I look up, and then the stars glitter, like diamonds scattered all over. My eyes closed voluntarily, and my mind--as if it has an inner mind of its own, started to recap familiar phrases on something like a list. And then it hit me: It's my 11:11pm routine way back. The looking up. The closing of eyes. And then reciting those mindless, unreachable lists of wishes. That contained my night for almost a year or so. Before, it was used to be a good-- therapeutic even-- kind of routine, but the effect had suddenly changed, and the routine had stopped when.. Crap. Here it goes again, still haunting me to the core. I forced to shun that thought, and with my bandana covering my two-piece suit, I wandered thru the edge of the kidney-shaped pool instead, admiring its glimmering blue waves and my own reflection within.
“Girl no more”. I hissed at the reflection on the water.
Two years had passed. Two years of rebuilding all the shattered pieces of my confidence and self esteem. Two years of restarting my heart, digging all of those memories within and burying them deep down. Two years of dealing with maturity, priority, and goal-setting. And seeing the result through the waves, I can't help but smile in contentment.
With a smile still plastered on my lips, I took the last gulp on my San Mig Apple that had been on my hands for an hour or so. I almost forgot I had this. And it already warmed through time. Everything would really get warm through time especially when it will be forgotten. And I wonder why even the things you’ve been gripping for long can possibly be forgotten? How idiotic that person could be? How idiotic could he be?
Ahh. San Mig Apple. Reminds me much of my College Days.. and stupidities.. Again and again and again. Ugh. I’m such a total idiot to think that I could escape from those memories. Not while I’m drinking this shitty liquor. Not while I’m here at the Homecoming. And not while 11:11pm exists. Okay, I’ll surrender. For the nth time, I let myself be buried into deep nostalgia....
…
“Refill?” A familiar voice hiss out from the back cutting off my mind-travel back time. I turned around. A guy in his usual blue summer get-up met my gaze, carrying a bottle of San Mig in one hand.
It's Christian.
YOU ARE READING
11:11
Teen Fiction“I didn't wish on 11:11, on crossed fingers, on wishbone, on falling meteors, nor on falling eyelashes to have someone like him. He just.. came. And I believe it's destiny.” --Jade
