Orpheus

Chapter 1: He's Ethereal (Win's Point of View)

He's ethereal.

These words have been repeating in my mind for quite a while now as I tacitly observe this man seated just a few distance away from me. As his eyes scan through the book he's reading, I also feel his emotions with his lips twitching back and forth. An argument, perhaps, I told myself because his eyes scream of disbelief and defiance. If only he would pay attention, he would've already seen my thoughtless gaze. I honestly do not know what's got into me; why my eyes have lost their strength to look away.

As I positioned my stare down that small bulge on his neck, I noticed it move. He gulped. Maybe, he's thirsty? He's been reading here for nearly about an hour now. He appears as if he's been transported to a world only he himself can plunge into. A world full of emotions, perhaps. Because his face, aside from consistently changing its state, also shows inconsistencies of emotions. I cannot even begin to fathom how his face could reflect varied levels of emotions in a span of sixty minutes. He's such a wonder.

To call his feature bewitching is quite an understatement. His face is one that stops you from your tracks. I figure, every time he walks by, more heads turn when his unperturbed stature ambles through a crowded path. His hair, black as night, invites you to lock your fingers in it: to brush it subtly to make him feel exceedingly comfortable. His body speaks volume. I look at his shoulders, and it tells me that to place my hand in there will make me feel safer. I look at his chest and I immediately feel the warmth it'll bring as I position my body near it. I look at his lips and I do not know why I just wanted to take it near mine, having it feel each other as we converse using our hearts.

I can't understand why I feel his loneliness. The atmosphere he emits transforms this whole space into an elevated state of melancholy. It takes a week of observation for one to notice that. This, I guess, is a skill I've mastered as I grew up being an only child with no other kids to talk to. I forcibly learned to be observant. The way his shoulders moved with the absence of spontaneity and with its position seemingly weighed down by that particular presence of heaviness tells me that he's going through something. The way he's seated is quite unusual. There's this feel of fatigue engraved on him.

Tired. He's tired. Of what though?

Looking from a distance and sometimes trying to start a conversation have been my routine for the past weeks. I honestly do not know that cowardice can fully take over my system. Many times, I have tried to just get near him, ask for his name, get to know him, and probably make him notice my existence. But I was never visited by Mr. Confidence. I am too shy to give in to my lack of courage. I always end up succumbing to the doubts and fears I have as I follow every inch of his movement, like a dog following its master.

I slowly gathered my strength, borrowing at least a few of that from my bag, my legs, and my smile. I have wanted to talk to him since then, and maybe I can try. Now. Maybe now, I can try.

"Hi!" I said with such glee that anyone who hears it can instantly feel my masked feeling of timidity.

He removes his eyes from the book he's reading and just blankly surveyed my whole being. Retreat! My mind is screaming. How could he make me feel such intimidation? I am panicking. My heart is running a marathon of its own, without restrictions. Any moment, its pumping will just stop, like how an engine stops functioning because it already reached its limit. I tried my best to utter some more words, thinking this will somehow make him more interested in me.

"Hi! I have been looking at you while you read," I continued speaking, wishing that he will at least acknowledge my presence or even give me a dry smile.

"And?" he said. Without any emotions on his face, he managed to double the inferiority I feel. This is his first word, and I do not understand how and can spark a bolt of electricity from my ears to my heart.

"Mythology. My favorite!" I exclaimed while once again, masking the disquietude tightly gripping over my heart, my body, and my soul. How I controlled my feet from not turning into jellies is still a mystery to me. I am standing still, braving the domineering figure glaring at me.

Silence. He didn't respond to my faked excitement. His focus returns to that piece of paper he's been holding. Then, I heard him sigh. So without any word, I sat beside him. He moved an inch farther. But my stubbornness was stronger, so I moved closer. He stands up. Then, with a lifeless tone, paired with a stoic expression, he said: "Stop. Just stop."

As he pulled his feet away from where I am, I also felt his annoyance. But this didn't even come close to how euphoric I feel recalling how our exchange turned. You're turning nuts, I confronted myself. That action was unacceptable but for some reasons, I enjoyed our conversation, if it is even a conversation to begin with.

That was the closest I've ever been with you. My heart is melting now, My Lonely Boy. I was deep in my thoughts when I noticed a sheet of paper from the seat that he vacated. Its edge is now wet from the dew dropping from the leaves of the tree where the bench is situated. The moist of the early morning breeze is slowly fading, dripping from the leaves that it enveloped last night. I start to unfold the letter, and as it slowly opens, I see the marks of the black pen that the owner used in writing them. The words slowly revealed themselves to me. It's poetry.

Come to me, love.

Rest a while in my ar - -

Stop. This is not right. You aren't allowed to enter this part of him.

My hands aimlessly fold the paper back to its starting state. After folding it, I place it inside my pocket, thinking this could be another opportunity for our paths to cross again. Now my feet starts to take me back to the path going home.