Post Open Heart Surgery

February 14, Midnight.

At this witching hour, I was outside, somewhere at the corner of Taft and Vito Cruz. Coming from work, I swung by the last open Starbucks. Two slices of chocolate cheesecake, I bought for loved ones. One lives nearby. The other, I will bring home for my mother.

I called the receiver's phone to tell him I'm waiting across the street. I didn't tell him my plans that night, or the reason for my sudden appearance. I showed up to make his day special and to reaffirm our bonds.

I can never forget. Sappy as it sounds, but I spoke from the gut.

"Happy Valentines!" I gave him the slice of cake to his mild astonishment. "I hope you'll love it."

Past forward a year later, and the boy and I went our separate ways. And like a ghost who never left the earthly plane, I rekindle the memory so it wouldn't leave my head.

Maybe that night, or the nights when he seemed to be drifting away, I was hoping against hope that our union would go on. That one would not give up the other because he was outgrown. But fate had other plans. And despite my best, I'd still be retracing the maps that would lead me to my new direction.

In two months after the breakup, I could have been with someone else. Someone, who could put up with my moods, tame my barefoot demons, and who could have sheltered me from the sways of solitude.

But I decided with my heart's consent to prolong the suffering. Maybe, just to shove down my throat the hard lessons in loving... too much. 

In less than a quarter, I would have toyed with men's hearts. Get the attention I desired and move on, without telling my sudden indifference. I could have slept with anyone, had I didn't give a slice of faith that the weatherman will wait for me in the end.

Had he known the depth of my attachment, maybe he wouldn't quit on me too.

But it doesn't matter now. The open heart surgery is almost done.

Like the eternal chase of the sun and the moon - the star-crossed lovers who only get to meet at twilight - I'd go on, guarding every ground that is mine. I'd never let anyone cross the line and touch that soft spot that still lies within me. 

For after a decade of being found, lost, found again, and again, and after losing for the third time just when I thought I was ready to give up a lifetime, no longer do I have to prove anything. I am nearing the end of this journey and sometimes I think I had enough.

I have played nurse to flu-stricken and hospital-confined partners; been to distant corners to follow their footsteps. I have given up a laptop just to see someone parade the stage for his second graduation. I have shared my bed, my home, and even the food I eat, asking only little to the efforts I made.

Stay.

But this is not how my narrative has been, and should I find myself dropping people and breaking their hearts into million pieces, may those who get to read this understand.

I no longer know if I'd give romance another shot, or let strangers take a peek at that faint spark inside my carved shell. But if there's a way I'd be found; and the resoluteness of my spirit speak once more of contentment like it is all there is to love. Let my history speaks well of me.

I have lived a life and survived.