It's almost a cold evening of December, the world is healing. The Filipinos can go out without masks. But you and I decided to stay inside our place. Arranging our rustic books in our bookshelf that we collected throughout the years. Some are old, dusty, chapped, and damaged due to the feeling we had while reading them, while some are new and still covered in plastic.
I looked at the window, seeing the blue and somber fading to this black featureless sky. You're reading the first book I gave you entitled "Macarthur" written by Bob Ong. The book has a couple of folds on the cover, and some crumple and dust on the pages.
The next thing I know, you were saying, "Coffee must be good, do you want some?" After all these years, you know that I always make coffee to anyone for years, but I never tried one. It's not because I hate it, it just never occurred to me to like coffee. I didn't answer, but you smiled. "You know, coffee is best when someone else is making it for you. Let me get you one." You didn't hesitate to get up and head to the kitchen.
I felt something is touching me. A furry and soft as cotton little Tabby cat. It's our not-so-little "Bubbi" cat brushing himself against my legs. Bubbi smells bland but lemony scented brown and white cat. I don't know where did he came from; he came out of nowhere.
You came back minutes later, with the coffee and some chocolate chip cookies on the tray. You sit in front of me crossed legged on the ground, put down the tray between us, and proceed to continue reading your book again.
I look at you, brush your thick and soft hair using my eyes. Looking at how your sinfully long and dark downcast eyelashes tickle when you turn your book to the next page. I always watch you breathe whenever you stare at a book. I notice how calm and peaceful you are.
You suddenly look back at me. I became conscious. I know you noticed how my face turns into crimson-color because of embarrassment.
You grin and hand me my cup of hot coffee and you look at me with the hopes of loving the masterpiece you made. I used to tell you how much I love the aroma of the coffee.
Little did you know, no matter what the coffee tastes like, I will still love it. You are waiting for me to take a sip. And so, I took one.
The warm coffee flushes down my throat. In my thoughts, I think coffee didn't taste exactly like it smells. The coffee you made is smooth, bold, and can take me to other places we can imagine, and that makes me want to take another sip. The bitterness is the constant reminder of how we fought for this love and how we continually tried to save this story. The taste and aroma of the coffee taste exactly like home.
And I look at you for a good minute and all I want to do is hug you so tight.
Little did I know, that will be the last time that I will ever see the calmness of your face, how your eyelashes flutter, and the last time that I will feel you breathe.
I woke up.
The blurry morning remembers, you are held by someone else.
I was your amber, but now you have your gold.
I'm afraid to not be able to escape this lifeless reveries and hurricane. I was deeply in love with you, but you dropped my hand. Maybe this faithless love story is not rare, but you are. And you'll always be.
But I lost you.
I woke up to this helpless reality that you were gone long before cold December came.
Hope; I won't lose that, maybe tomorrow, these dreams would turn into reality with someone else. And that's the beauty of this story.
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A/N: I hope someone out there will read my first ever work. I'm really scared of releasing this. I lost my drive in writing for years. I never finished a story. And now, here's one. Hope you like it. Please be kind and leave a comment. Thank you so much! Love y'all. :)
