I t is a truth universally acknowledged that the greatest love stories share one common factor: the meet-cute.
That stolen glance from the beautiful stranger across the room, the quickening of one’s heart. That’s how you know you’re guaranteed a happily-ever-after. My parents are living proof of that.
For most hopeless romantics, they dote on Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy, Jack and Rose, even Lara Jean and Peter as the standard of a great romance. Yet, to me, they don’t compare to my very own Saralyn and Enzel Garcia. Aka, Mum and Dad.
They both met at 18 years old, the age that one apparently finds their promised forever. For Dad, it was love-at-first-sight the moment he laid eyes on Mum, but for her, it’s a different story. She claims it was hate-at-first-sight . Really, who could blame her, since her first impression was Dad clumsily spilling halo-halo all over her pretty sunflower dress right by the food table at the Filipino fiesta.
The rest, as they say, is history.
If I’m the subject of the greatest love story, it makes me wonder whether such a story is written for me. After all, this is my last year of 18. I’ve only got a few months of 18 left in me, before I inevitably bid farewell to the age that happily-ever-after was promised for them.
And while I know that my timeline could very much differ from theirs, I can’t help this deep desire for my own love story to unravel in the same vein. That’s how I’ll know it’ll stick.
Except…I haven’t even met anyone yet. Let alone, had a meet-cute. Not even close.
I’ve had crushes, yes, a multitude of them during high school, but most, if not all of them, ended in me being ridiculed or ignored.
Whatever. They all don’t matter anymore because this year is going to be different. Starting anew in film school, out of the disastrous claws of high school, there’ll be new people to meet.
Just imagine all the possible meet-cutes.
I don’t even need meet-cutes in plural.
I just need the right one to find my one .
My own happily-ever-after.