A tiny window
I may seem quiet in a crowd, but I love having close-knit and heartfelt conversations with new people.
One of my fears has always been being mistaken as aloof; it’s not that I don’t want to talk to you, it’s just that I might need a little more time to observe how I should best approach you.
Also, I’m terrible at small talk. I find it difficult to extend conversations about my favorite shows or the latest trends in pop culture, but tell me more: How do you want to be remembered? What are the values you hold onto? What’s a dream you have yet to fulfill?
A close friend once told me that I wear my heart on my sleeves.
Once I’m comfortable with someone, I’m an open book.
Being vulnerable with people, for some reason, was easy for me. I’d often share the stories I wrote here as an ice-breaker whenever I’m beginning to trust someone new, because you can usually gauge whether you shared similar values and perceptions with them from conversations about the life lessons we’ve learned from unfortunate circumstances in the past— and when you open up first, people are more likely to open up to you, too.
Through writing, I found love in the art of structuring dictions and sentences that describe how I feel, even from brief encounters. I’m an avid believer that you should be able to tell people how much you appreciate them, at least once in your life.
I had written how I lost a part of myself that could easily feel and express love. Little did I know that it wasn’t something I had completely lost, it just needed to be rekindled.
It has been fourteen months since I had given up hope in my life plan. It took me more than a year to rebuild the trust to start working and meeting new people again; to unlearn that people aren’t always terrible, to look at yourself in the mirror and acknowledge that perhaps you’re doing something right after all, and to finally have something to look forward to again.
For the past few months, I was surrounded by the warmth I didn’t know I could still feel. I had just begun to be more comfortable with the people I just met, and they have shown me how there will still be those out there who value what you do, who are interested in getting to know the person you are, and who believe that you’ll do great in life.
But it was only a matter of time until I had to leave. It felt like reading an unfinished book; I was about to flip the page, only to find it’s fin.
Too often, we find courage in making the most out of moments only when time feels scarce: graduation day, the final week before you leave home, or a goodbye at the airport — it’s the tiny window before you move on to the next chapter of your life.
Maybe, there will be a time we can meet again.
In maybe lies a limbo between a yes and a no; a small room of hope just enough for convenience, not enough for a long-term promise.
In maybe, we think about what ifs and what could have been. What if I had put myself more out there? What if we spent more time?
But I believe that life is orchestrated in meticulous ways, and if it’s meant to be, it’ll be. We might not be able to make sense of it now, but there will be a time when the puzzle will piece itself, even if it may take years to come.
Thus, let this chapter be an unfinished book with blank pages to fill.
May we revisit this? for there’s a void to feel.
