All About You

Twenty Six

T he moment I open my eyes, a searing pain shoots through my brain and my pelvis.

I groan, dragging myself from bed just before my family leaves the house, so I can properly say bye to them. Thank God it’s Friday and I don’t have any classes

Once I’m downstairs, Dad presses a hand to my forehead.

“You’re feeling a little warm there, Jaslene,” he says, concerned, “Make sure you’re not overworking yourself. You rest today, okay?”

“It’s just my periods,” I assure him, though I know that this migraine isn’t from periods alone. The events of yesterday flash through my mind, each image like a stab against my body.

When my family finally leaves the house, the first thing I do is update Kiara and Diane on everything.

I explain everything that happened, from the moment I stepped into Books and Bricks, to seeing Rafayel’s girlfriend, to running into Marlon right after.

As expected, they launch into a fury of insults about Rafayel, commenting on how he was never cute anyway, about how I was too good for him.

About how they hope he never finds anyone again. They curse on cheaters, on how people like that don’t deserve love.

Once they get their heavily worded opinions out, they try to find him on social media, but to no avail.

“What the hell is this man, a ghost?” Kiara asked, groaning as she searches up different variations of Rafayel, even going onto the Books and Bricks official page to search their followers.

I wave it away, telling them not to worry about him anymore.

At this point, I’m just exhausted. They encourage me to delete him from my phone, to delete every trace of him. I’d immediately blocked Rafayel on the way to the kpop store yesterday, so I don’t even know if he’d tried to reach out at all. Diane insists that blocking isn’t good enough, and to delete the messages entirely.

The call ends after two hours, and I’m left to the silence of the house once again, balancing between a strange feeling of relief and grief. I comply with Diane’s words, opening up his last message to me.

The sleaze had sent that the morning I paid him a visit. In one swift click, Rafayel is completely erased. As if he’d never existed. Like I hadn’t spent the better part of the last few weeks completely enamoured by him, obsessing over him. Of believing he was the love of my life.

I’d been so convinced he was the one, that our meet-cute meant something. Tears spring to my eyes, hot and heavy, as our conversations run a tiring marathon through my mind. I press my palm against my eyes, pushing back the incoming sob. I don’t want to cry over Rafayel. Not ever.

And yet, I can’t help but wonder. Why me ?

Had he plucked the vulnerability from my eyes the first time we met?

Had I walked into that bookstore, so transparent and naked with my desire to love and fall in love, that he couldn’t help but play the game?

Thoughts spiral into a hot ball of pitied despair, one that I hadn’t felt for a while, not since the last rejection.

Am I so hopeless, that I’m not even deserving of love?

I shake my head. No .

I can’t believe that.

Marlon’s words come rushing back at me.

Don’t lose your spark. Don’t lose your love for love.

Willing all thoughts of Rafayel away, I turn on the TV, and flicker through numerous Netflix titles instead. I settle on rewatching Isa Pa With Feelings , my favourite Filipino romantic-comedy that I pray will grant me some serotonin to cure this migraine while I eat, before taking a nap once the movie ends.

A sudden knocking on my door is what wakes me up later. I blink away the momentary vertigo. Had I imagined the knock?

Knock, knock, knock.

No, I hadn’t.

A sliver of fear runs through me. Even if I’ve been home alone many, many times, the thought of a stranger knocking on my door when I’m home all alone still frightens me.

I crawl out of the couch, and peer at the door from behind the kitchen wall.

That’s when I hear a voice call out.

“Garcia, open up! It’s me!”

My eyes widen. Marlon?

I check my phone, and realise he’d texted me ten minutes ago that he’d be dropping by quickly.

I hurry over to the door, unlocking the latches as fast as I can. Marlon stands at my door, holding a small grocery bag, with that signature grin of his.

“Just wanted to see how you were and drop off a few things” he explains, extending the hand holding the bag forward, “I wish I could stay longer, but I’ve got basketball practice starting in ten.”

I take the bag from him, unsure of what to say. Glancing inside the bag, I see that he’s brought me a tub of Nutella, a hot-water bag, an aloe vera drink, and sanitary pads. All for me. He came all this way for me .

I meet his eyes, my heart threatening to burst from my chest. The memory of his arms wrapped around me, of his fingers against my skin, of his smile at the kpop store flash like lightning strikes inside of my mind.

“Marlon, I-” I begin.

“How are you feeling?”

I could not have felt any better than I do now. With him standing here. My lips open and close, stupidly unable to form words.

I settle on, “I’m - I’m okay, I think. I’m good. Just - uh - overwhelmed with film school right now.”

Marlon smiles, “I’m happy to hear you’re better. But please, relax today, okay?”

“I will - I - Thank you,” I stammer, my fingers tightening around the bag. He’d come all this way for me.

A silence ensues. Marlon’s phone buzzes, and he glances down at it. He meets my eyes again, eyebrows scrunched.

“I’m sorry, but I’ve really got to go,” he says, stepping backward and away from me, “I’ll see you again soon, okay?”

I’m still standing at my door, watching even as he drives away, waving even as he turns out of view.

During class over the next week, Kiara and Diane don’t dare to bring up his name again. I avoid the pathway that leads me to Books and Bricks, barring it from my memory. I even try to find another direction temporarily, just so I don’t risk running into Rafayel by accident.

I spend most of the week with my head down, chasing up crew agreements for the film, locking in locations and sorting out the production calendar.

It’s strange, really, how everything around me falls back to normal.

Seeing Rafayel with his girlfriend had felt like the end of the world. Yet, with every passing second that I distract myself with mundane tasks, the memory of him fades.

His green eyes soon become a distant afterthought. His sandy hair, the curve of his lips.

I snip away at the part of me that’s still tangled up in the grief that he was meant to be my meet-cute, my one.

I’ve been through this before. I’ve gotten rejected too many times. This shouldn’t be any different.

On Thursday after I get home from film school, I’m exhausted from the week. I throw myself onto the couch as soon as I get home.

Mum takes a seat at my feet, lifting them and placing them atop her lap.

“Big assignment, huh?” she asks, drumming her fingers against calves. I sigh, which is all the explanation she needs.

“Make sure you relax, okay? Take the rest of the night off. Why don’t you go get a bite with Marlon or something?”

She pinches my calf cheekily. My stomach flips.

“I feel like staying home tonight,” I say, sitting up. I emphasise my point by wrapping my arms around her, “Nothing says relaxed like spending time with my darling family.”

I hear a scoff against my ear, but she quickly plants a kiss atop my head.

“I’m glad you haven’t forgotten about your darling family since getting a boyfriend,” she teases.

The word boyfriend rolls over in my stomach. Even now, over a month later, it’s still strange knowing that basically my whole family believes I’m in a real relationship with Marlon.

I wonder what they would say if I were to reveal everything was a ruse. If they knew who it was done all for.

“What are you going to do for your anniversary? It just passed, didn’t it?” Mum asks. Then, she lifts her hands, waving it in worry, “Not that you are pressured to have to celebrate it.”

I haven’t even thought about that.

“I’m not sure yet, we haven’t thought that far,” I say sheepishly.

“You know, for your Dad and I’s first month anniversary, he set up this beautiful picnic under the Harbour Bridge and set up some sketchbooks for us to sketch each other. It was incredibly cheesy, your Dad was not a drawer, but it’s still one of my favourite dates to this day, 22 years later.”

The way Mum reminisces about her and Dad’s love story, how they talk about each other like they are still new, I’ll never tire of it. Even if I don’t experience my own fairytale, I’m happy to bear witness to the greatest love story of all.

“You both are so cheesy,” I tease, nudging her shoulder with mine.

On Friday night, Cheyenne and I call for a couple of hours. I catch her up on everything that had happened with Rafayel, assuring her that I’ve deleted all traces of him from my phone.

She then repeats the same sentiment everyone else had, even making me promise that I won’t let him rethink my worth. She’s witnessed too many times firsthand on the high school grounds how I’d wailed over my failed crushes, believing how unworthy I was, to only find another boy to romanticise, merely a month or so later.

Cheyenne and I continue to chat idly about her trip, about recent gossip we’d found on our shared mutuals, including an old classmate of ours who’d gotten someone pregnant.

Before we end the call, Cheyenne makes me promise not to dwell on Rafayel any longer. I promise her that Rafayel will be nothing but an afterthought, yet it’s only half the truth.

Thing is, while Rafayel doesn’t hold any value to me, what he did is a reminder, somewhat a waking-up call that I need to stop trying too hard. To stop yearning. To stop romanticising and meddling.

All my life I’ve been a mastermind, but no one can mastermind love.

So I’ll let the right one come to me naturally. The script can write itself, but I’m done tampering with its words. I can put down the pen, and let it unfold.

Afterall, the romance I want most is not that which is written on page.

What I want is one that’s real .