Serendipity
A Short Story
By: N. Mozart Diaz
My phone rang, which was odd. My phone never rang. Some wrong number? It’s nice to have my phone ring for once, though.
“Hello?” I answer it
“Hello, is this Kathleen? This is Anne” came the reply
“Oh, no, I think you have the wrong number”
“Oh, okay then. Sorry for the trouble.”
She puts down the phone and the world feels normal again. I wouldn’t pick up under normal circumstances, it isn’t 1995 after all; you no longer pick up when the caller is unknown. But there’s been a raging storm for a week now and there is no current; again comes the inner monologue praising Philippine infrastructure.
The candles crackle and the wind howls against my window. I wish I could read but it’s too dark even with the candles — my eyes are screwed enough. I pick up my bass and play a few riffs and make up some of my own. My phone lights up and receives a message:
“Hi, sorry. I got the number wrong. Have a nice night!”
Am I bored enough to reply? — Yes, yes I am.
“It’s all right. I hope it isn’t too weird that I’m replying. It’s just that there hasn’t been any current for a week now and I’m really bored.”
No reply — figures. Another gust of wind hits the window along with a wall of rain. It’s one hell of a storm, the strongest one that’s hit Northern Luzon all year. I collapse back to my bed and wonder who she is — I’m awfully curious now.
My phone lights up again and it’s the same number. I take a deep breath and pick up.
“Yeah, hi. It’s not weird at all. It’s kinda nice for a change” she laughs at the end of her statement.
“Finally, something new to do. Haha. Anne, right? Hello, Anne, nice to meet you.”
“Yep, and you are?”
“Michael, name’s Michael. How old are you, by the way?”
“17, you?”
“17 too”
“Don’t lie.”
“I’m not lying, I swear. I’m the most honest man you’ll ever meet.”
“Hmph. Haha, where do you study?”
“The University of the Philippines. Mwahahahaha, and you?”
“De La Salle University. I take it that you’re some kind of genius? You know, UP and all?”
“Oh no, I’m a complete idiot. I take it that you’re rich? De La Salle and all?”
“Shh, don’t tell anyone. Haha. You’re cute. Are you always like this?”
“When I’m drunk enough. Haha”
“Do you drink a lot?”
“It’s been raining for two weeks, what else am I supposed to do?”
“I don’t know, answer calls from strangers?” we both laugh
“Where do you come from?” She asks
“Nope. Stranger danger. Hihi, sorry.” I say
“If I tell you where I’m from, would you trust me?”
“Do you swear to answer the truth and nothing but the truth.”
“I’m the most honest girl you will ever meet.”
“Well ha ha. Don’t steal my line. So, where you from?”
“Baguio.”
I’m suddenly caught off guard. This can’t be just dumb luck, can’t it?
“Are you kidding me?”
“No, why?”
“Because…”
“Because what?”
“Take a guess.”
“Don’t be mean.”
“I’m from Baguio too?”
“Ooh, which part?”
“L.A.”
“L.A?”
“Loakan Airport. Hahaha. And you?”
“Quarry.”
“Near the cemetery?”
“Is that really what everyone thinks of when I say I live here?”
“Well, yes.”
“I really wish I had stereotypes about you Loakan people too, but I’ll save that for another time.”
“Hey, Anne. I really like talking to you but my phone’s about to die and we don’t really know when the current’s coming back. Talk soon?”
“Sure. Talk Soon.”
“Goodnight! Sweet Dreams!”
“You’re sweet. Goodnight and sweet dreams too!”
I put the phone down. Holy. Fucking. Shit. Is this for real? I thought this kind of stuff only happens in the movies. Am I in a movie? The screenwriter’s kind of a bore, though. But Oh my good Lord. Is this for real? Is this actually happening? I pick my phone up and look at what just happened. Yes, the messages are real. The call log registered too. I collapse into my bed with a giddy feeling in my stomach. We have a word for it in Filipino: kilig, kinikilig.
There’s an awful stirring in my stomach and a look on my face that I can’t wipe off even if I tried. Butterflies, I’m feeling butterflies in my stomach again and I’m smiling like an escaped mental patient. How has it been since I felt like this? A year ago? Two years? It doesn’t matter, what matters now is that I feel it again. I hope I could feel this warmth over and over and over again.
But I shouldn’t get ahead of myself, I think. This might be just some kind of trick. Let’s level ourselves and try not to think of it so much. Text her tomorrow and see what happens.
The days pass and we talk to each other every night after our classes and into the midnight blue. The storm had moved away but it was still ravaging the provinces further north. We would exchange social media profiles and more and more proof accumulated that this girl was real and that everything did seem too good to be true. The only thought in my mind, day in and day out, was when I would meet her in person and if she was as beautiful as her photos in Facebook and Instagram. I was giddy, I was an infinity of emotions moving in and out of my persona.
After a few weeks, I finally got the opportunity to meet her in person — to meet her officially. My heart raced and pounded in my chest the moment she asked. It was a gloomy Friday afternoon and the Basketball Varsity was playing a tune-up game.
I went to the bleachers to say goodbye to my friends. They were too focused on the game to notice my anxiety, or that I was sweating heavily in the cold October breeze.
I walked to the mall in complete agony, thoughts ran through my mind and out of it and back into it like radio static. I was in mental agony — half mad, half ecstatic. Thunder rolled in from a distance, but I could barely hear it past the beating of my heart. Drizzle, then a sudden downpour of rain
I found myself where we agreed to meet and shot her a text.
“Hey, I’m here, where are you?”
Nothing happened except that I stood in the rain for a few hours.
