continuation of A Précis of my Love Story…
(Be warned: this post may contain some “cheesy and slightly saccharined” content.)
Chapter II. My Reali-Tale of Romeo (2008)
A new life-page unfolds. A shakespearean character came into my “reali-tale”. His name was Romeo, an overly-quixotic man he was, living his young life. He gained cheap thrills from loveless romance; broken hearts of maidens one immediately after another… and another… and another. He was most of the many few women’s stir of amusement… and worst hurt afterwards.
In front of a small church cathedral was where we first met. He called my name in a such way how I most loved to be called. I didn’t know a Romeo at that time, and i was anxious to see who called me among the sickening crowd. I glanced my eyes to sort out from the people nearby and then, there he was, a someone who had a spirited grin on his pretty face. He came near just to say he knew me from her sister, Joanna, who was one of my faithful comrades. I found that he had an appealing face and a somewhat strange length of long lashes. It emphasized his eyes which somehow arrested my attention for a couple of seconds. But then I knew that I had to go, i still had the “Cinderella Man syndrome”. I was, at the moment, still stitching up my own heart.
The next night, a magical letter came. It was from him. Romeo. An impish way he had. Oh, and I knew men like him so well. I’ve been around such for a decade or so since I’ve had my share of true men comrades who delightedly confide their “women-mischiefs” along with devilish grins.
We had our exchange of early arguments that I bluntly told him I am not in for any romantic liaisons whatsoever. I took him to Cinderella Man and I’s story (with good reasons which I had in mind) so that perhaps he would understand why my heart couldn’t be open to any other.
He then uttered the words that wasn’t at all an open sesami but did crack the doors of me slightly open.
“Sana akin ka na lang… 🙁 “, he said.
I didn’t know what I was going to be in for. But I did so much want to belong to someone at the moment. And that it, too, had me forget who I was having a conversation with – an impishly quixotic Romeo.
Time went on, we argued so much every day that we became so much more as friends. He began to understand who I was and where I’ve been, though he still had that woman fever in him. Even so, he never tried to be “Cinderella Man” but he did want so much to fill that empty space inside of me.
And then it came the day I dread when I finally ate my own words about not ever having any romantic liaisons with whomever. We fell in love. But this time, he loved too much, and I loved less.
Some moment within our unbalanced love, I had to bluntly cry my eyes out on his shoulders after a day of me coincidentally having to pass by Cinderella Man himself somewhere in the city. A very indisposed comfort that Romeo had to offer, but I also understood his grief with the fact that my heart wasn’t completely his – yet.
And because of that, I have learned to love whom I had at that moment by not wasting dear time of wanting whom I did not. He became enough, without him having to mimic a once-loved figure of mine, and me having to picture somebody else. He became more than enough. But this time, I loved too much, and he loved less.
He became weary of a battle between being his true self and becoming someone else that he thought would be enough for me. He hadn’t know that I accepted him for who he really was; it was too late of chances. I, too, had my own shortcomings.
Lies were born. And so were the bags of both our eyes. My Mistrust became his most frustration; and mine, his infidelity. The more I demanded, the more it fueled his rebellion. The more he rebelled, the more i distrusted. A man who rescued me from not ever wanting to love again, had then become another of my worst apprehensions. He stood before me, as I pictured so much of a different being, none of whom I know of – a homme fatale who had become my worst fear. He, at that time and of all people, was the only one that could re-slit my spirit’s still-healing wound open. I then remembered, he was most of the many few women’s stir of amusement… and worst hurt afterwards. At that point, I had undeniably become – one of the many few.
Our hostility gave life to hate. And hate made both our love asleep. It was so much of a claustrophobic romance – choking both of us – that each had to let go. We both come to love less.
Unlike every war, we knew ours was different. No one won. Although, he wondered off living again as the overly-quixotic man that he was used of living his young life and I had all the chances in the world to know what freedom and cheap pleasure’s supposed to feel and though we knew we’ve come to our utmost mistakes and blunders along the separation, he and I knew that things would never be the same without each other, no matter how much we sought for discontenting alternatives just to have what we knew will never be replaced. We both came to look for what was missing.
After a some-what not-too-long-but-not-too-short span of time that passed, a magical letter came again, it was from him. Romeo. But this time, so much of a different one. He wasn’t at all even a bit of an overly-quixotic man.
But my heart, finally worn-out to restore, had chose to become a stone as a more immediate substitute to healing. It was unkind but it was all the chances of reprisal that I had against him – for him to not be able to break me all over again.
I finally said that I didn’t love him and I don’t want him anymore. I knew it was enough words of dignity to shatter him as much as it did shatter me, too, i confess.
But then, I’ve never seen him so persistent such as during that moment. He came to me. I still acted as if a stone. I put a grin on my face to let him know that I had been better. But then, he was shaking. I’ve never seen his eyes so misty. So sincere. So real. No Quixote to see. Just him, deeply in love with me.
He cried. THAT BASTARD. He cried. He never knew but it was my weakness. To see him cry. I then literally had to cover his eyes. It was the first again, after quite some time, that we actually felt each other – me on his tear-soaked eyes; and he with my cold damp hands.
Then after, we sorted out crumples. I had mine, and he had his – we straightened it out together. Yes, there were still hurts along what both had come to know during what happened along after the separation, but love was prevailing enough for us to put it all away in the past and finally look forward to what tomorrow holds for us.
We became so much more of friends and lovers that there existed transparency between each other (we could even finish each other’s lines. weird but true, hehe). Lies were disposed with truth, no matter how a bit upset each might be about it. Words were turned to deeds. Promises brought to life. We could now comply to long conversations, even about non-sense subjects under the sun. Love, truth, and faith, we both brought upon our table. But then just the same, less frequent arguments about his casual gambling, only now he plays on moderate, and heck I’m starting to like it myself.
Today, our love is just the same but so much more.
God made our love sweeter the second time around. Separation made way for growth. Distance made love fonder. And a once loss made way for learning to treasure the value of what we really did have – each other.
Romeo, he once said some time right after we got back together, that imperfect relationships with imperfect people makes the love greater. and it did. What matters most is that people would learn to live with and accept these imperfections; and learn to love without cheap reasons, but rather unconditionally, rationally, and almost-unendingly.
-end of Chapter II-
Thing is, I’d love to hear about your love stories, too, no matter how cheesy it may be!
I’d love to have your feedback on this one, too!