“Ingrid! Stop!” he yelled.

Ingrid had to resist everything that persuaded her to catch a glimpse of his desperate face. She didn’t stop running. Her feet padded on the puddles that formed on top of the lush green grass, making sure her tears blended with raindrops that mercilessly tormented her scalp. 

“Ingrid, please! Stop!” he continued. She could hear he was five steps away from her. She jerked when he grabbed her arm with alarming force. 

Ingrid didn’t know what to do. She stood in front of him, fighting to keep her breathing normal—which was impossible—her gaze darting to the brown eyes that stared back at her.

“What?” she managed to spit out. He let out a small gasp. “What do you want?” Her voice was shaky; she was afraid of losing control. 

“Did you really love me?” he asked. 
“I wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t,” she replied, breathing heavily, blinking away raindrops that settled upon her eyelashes. 
“I’m sorry it took so long,” he said, noticeably genuine about his words. He looked at the drenched girl in front of him. He knew she was crying. Her reddening nose told him. 

At such an important moment, Ingrid lost her ability to speak. All she managed to do was let her lips tremble at his words. She hated looking so frail in front of the opposite sex. She found that she couldn’t concentrate. Thoughts of love him and love him-nots darted about her mind. 

“You broke my heart,” she said, remembering the bittersweet rejection she had to swallow a long time ago. She was now unable to control the tears that flowed so effortlessly. 
“I know. And I’m sorry,” he said. He pulled her in for a hug. Under his wet grey t-shirt, his heartbeat was uncontrollable. He didn’t know what to expect. He wanted her to love him back so that he could make up for her sadness. He hated seeing her cry. She felt the warmth of his body seep into hers, and under such heavy rain it was the best feeling in the world. She wished she could stay in his arms forever. She sobbed. 

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m sorry.” He stood silently in front of her expressionless. “I just… I can’t.” 
“Why not?” he asked.  
“Because. B-Because I—I don’t love you anymore,” she said.
He was bewildered. She felt like a prick. 
“What do you mean?” he asked slowly.
“I meant,” she said, struggling to keep her voice stable. “I meant, you’re a great guy, and I really wanted to be with you—trust me, I really did—” she paused, “but… I just… I don’t love you anymore.”

She took a deep breath, her eyes blinking uncontrollably. The rain poured harder as they both stood in front of each other waiting for each other’s responses.  
“I loved you, Sam. I really did. But I moved on,” she explained.
There was a bitterness she could sense from the way he glanced at her, but he kept quiet nonetheless.
He tucked several strands of wet hair behind Cassandra’s right ear. “I love you, Cass,” he said. He planted a kiss on Cassandra’s cheek. He pressed his lips together before he left.

She could feel hot tears struggling to make its way out, but she knew she had to hold back for another minute. She loved him, but that was the past. She had to turn away from him now. She watched him make his way up the stairs planted on the hill. His steps grew from a walk to a jog and as he reached the parking lot, to a run. She helplessly sat on wet grass, reflecting upon the decisions she made a few minutes ago. She was left in confusion under the rain. 

The glass door swiftly opened after a little push. The sudden, strong smell of coffee beans crawled into her nostrils. She took a slow step towards the queue, her green flip flops dragging across the roughly-textured gray and beige tiles. The display of sweet delicacies that await her behind a glass compartment made it impossible for her not to turn her eyes toward them. Suddenly, she was aware of her stomach’s growling. She lifted her wrist and glanced at the pretty slim watch to make sure it was still there. 

It was unusual to see the coffee joint a little less crowded than it used to be. She noticed it when the flock of green armchairs on the right part of the cafe appeared deserted. Nevertheless, she loves the place. The yellow-tinted lights, plush seating, the smell of coffee and steaming delicacies always reminded her of home. She could not think of a better place to wait for her ride. 

A barista dressed in black and a green apron appeared behind the glass compartment. “Can I help you?” he asked. 
“Yes. I’d like a tall spearmint tea, please,” she said in her gentle voice.
“Hot?” the barista confirmed.
“Yes.”
“What else can I get you? Some food, perhaps?”
She eyed the row of pastries and sandwiches that sat temptingly before her eyes. Finally, her gaze fixed on the pile of scones with chunky chocolate pieces on top of them. “One of these, please,” she said, pointing at the scones. 
“Do you want me to reheat it?”
“Yes, please,” she said. She knew scones tasted much better warm than cold.
A second later, the cashier printed a receipt, and she readily passed the cashier a blue-colored bill. The cashier handed her the change, and she stepped out of the way to shove the bills into her pink, rectangular wallet. 

She walked towards the pick up corner to take her hot spearmint tea and steaming scone. She eyed the room for an empty armchair but failed to find any—she settled for the plush, long sofa seating instead. She dropped her bag onto the sofa and placed her hot tea, scone and cell phone in front of her. She noticed the faint sound of jazz that echoed throughout the room. As she settled herself onto the seating, she fished a book she just bought from the bookstore downstairs. She spent forty-five minutes in the bookstore hunting for a book she might like. After discovering a book about a girl who could talk to spirits and spending ten minutes reading the first fifteen or so pages, she decided to purchase it. 

She felt like the Parisian women pop culture portrayed: sitting in an outdoor cafe, coffee on the table, immersing herself in a book. In her case, an indoor cafe and tea on the table. She noticed there were other people like her. They were alone, occupying tables for two, either burying their nose into a book or fiddling with their smartphones. It was a prime example of individualism. But then she thought: We might be individualists, we might practice civil acknowledgement (as Mr. Ben taught me in sociology last year) but we have one thing in common: we’re here to seek comfort and solitude in a temporary “settlement”. 

Before she knew it, a good hour passed. Her phone rang, telling her the ride was approaching. She quickly packed her things, rushed out of the building and climbed into the beige sedan waiting for her. 

She felt she spent her money well.

Do you remember when we first met
It’s an occasion I can’t forget 
It seemed like four days of gold
Days when the feelings were mold
You were etched into my mind

You stood out
In the end 
I can’t bear but to fall again
And my brain tells me no
But my heart says he won’t go

You’re like the sun of my bright days
You’re like the rain of my grey days
You seem to appear wherever I go
It sounds crazy yes, I know
But you know all the right things to say
And you know everything to make it all okay
You are everything I could hope for
And my heart’s swung like an open door 

Do you remember when we first talked
Our friendship was steady like a rock 
Words flowed like flooding rivers
Thoughts of you sent me shivers
But you don’t feel the same way

Someday you’ll feel what I feel
Cross my heart I won’t give up
Won’t let go now 
Someday you’ll see what I see
And you’ll be there falling for me 

The room glowed a dim yellow. There were two sources of light: one on the ceiling right above her head and one coming from her faintly-lit laptop screen. She sat down on the leather couch, one of her legs propped up onto the plush surface. 

Tick, tick, tick, tick. It was nowhere near the Hour yet. 

She wished she could think of other things to think about. Yet his face was plastered to her mind and the words he had said to her perpetuated in her conscious mind. Records of old conversations were long gone. Though she had thought she would regret disposing them, she felt she had no need to feel that way. Everything he said were etched on her heart. She always find it difficult to forget everything. 

She pulled both of legs up, stretching them so they were placed on top of the armrest. She propped her laptop on top of her stomach as she gazed blankly to the little rectangular window that displayed all the tiny squares. She couldn’t find his square. She let her little white pointer browse across the net, but it always ended up clicking on that rectangular window. 

The Hour, after what seemed like centuries, finally arrived. But the little green square was not there. She waited. An hour passed. She grew restless. She slumped off the couch and sat on the floor, clutching the sides of her laptop. Another half hour passed. She put the laptop in front of her full-length bedroom mirror as she laid down, the coldness of the tile floors seeping through her clothes, hugging her stomach. Another fifteen minutes passed; she could feel her eyelids becoming heavy but her heart urged her to fight the drowsiness. 

Five minutes passed. No show. 
She let the drowsiness envelope her, telling her little heart—in the words of Eleanor Roosevelt—: “With the new day comes new strength and new thoughts.”
She’s not giving up. Yet. 

You never went through
The nights I had spent
Just to wait for you
My love does not dent

Sometimes I don’t want
To wear my heart on my sleeve
Your eyes they daunt
I hang on the edge a cliff 
Just to let you tear me apart

I wait for your words
Tears won’t escape my eyes
To you, do I look lost?
For now it’s not goodbye 

“Good morning,” she said with shyness tinged in her voice. 
He flashed a smile that commanded the blood in her chest to disperse. “Mornin’.” 
God, he looks beautiful, she thought. They stood there looking at each other, an awkward silence almost rising to the surface. 

“Breakfast’s ready,” she said quickly. 

Instead of walking towards the island, he walked towards her, playfully squeezing her chin. He kissed her cheek. She beamed hard like a thirteen-year-old girl who just received a love letter from her crush.

“I hope you like what I made. It’s just coffee, toast and scones. I hope you like cranberry.”

He grabbed a warm scone, letting the smell envelope his nose before he took a crunchy bite. It was crusty and crunchy outside, but warm and moist inside. He threw his head back, showing her an exaggerated response to the deliciousness of her cooking. She laughed—it was the most beautiful sound he’d ever heard. 

“You never told me you’re good in baking,” he said with his mouth full.  

“Just with scones,” she said, sipping her hot chocolate. 

“Maybe you should cook my breakfast everyday from this day on,” he said. 

“Of course, I’m your wife now,” she proclaimed. She felt her stomach churn at the word, but knew in the back of her mind that she’d get used to it. It was only her first day, and she was the rookie of all the rookies. 

“And I am now… your husband,” he said casually, biting into the now-half scone. 

“Indeed,” I said. I planted a kiss on his lips, catching a bit of the crumbs on them.

He loves the woman that was licking the crumbs off her lips. “Your morning breath tastes gross,” she giggled. 

He shrugged. “Doesn’t yours?” 

She rolled her eyes. “I could get used to it.”

“Of course. You’ll have to forever.”

Ignoring his morning breath, she planted another quick kiss. “Forever it is.”

She watched the milky dark brown liquid bubbling, catching a whiff of the appetizing scent of vanilla swirl in the air. It was—no—it’s still her favorite morning ritual. The kitchen looked like the one in the magazines: polished marbletop counters with white cupboards were separated from sleek beige cupboards by a wall decorated with glossy chocolate-colored tiles. A wide fridge with a water dispenser stood majestically at the end of the row of counters. She had browsed her way through interior design magazines (a neat stack sat perfectly under the glasstop coffee table in the living room), seeking advice from her mother, the mistress of her childhood home. 

She took a deep breath. The toast and pastries were almost done—the crisp, sweet smell of nicely burnt bread and miniature cranberry scones tingled the nose of the chestnut-haired, curvy woman staring at the pan on the stove. The brewing black liquid in the coffee pot teased her nostrils, almost reminding her of her school—the days where a teacher would look out of place without a mug of steaming coffee in their hand.

That particular morning was exceptionally chilly. She knew the winter is creeping in, and that the first snow would come very soon. She tugged on the zipper of her suede maroon hooded jacket, under it a creme long-sleeved shirt made of fabric so thin it showed her expensive undergarments. Perhaps she should not worry about the way her body looked—after all, he had seen it, touched it, married it. She realized the edge of her lips twitched upwards before she switched the fire off the stove.

The cabinet doors swung open at her touch. She pulled two mugs decorated with intricate, colorful geometric patterns. The liquid from the pan made a sloshing sound as she poured them into one of the mugs. She opened a mini packet of marshmallows and threw five marshmallows on top of the steaming hot chocolate. She poured the distinct-smelling coffee into the other mug and placed it on the island before her. 

What would it be like to have kids?, she wondered. Perhaps they’ll have my emerald green eyes and his jet black hair. Perhaps they’ll have my full lips and his pointed nose. 

She grabbed two clean plates from the cupboard beneath the island top, and a couple of  sleek stainless steel knife and fork from a drawer in the counter next to the stove. The cutlery clinked as she set them on the island. 

Perhaps a boy first, and then a girl after three years: he’d protect his sister, she continued, thinking to herself. Mathias, Nate or Karl for the boy, Shay, Lexa or Sica for the girl. Unless he thinks of something, we’d try to merge our ideas. Hmm, that’s not so bad. 

Grabbing the oven handle with green plaid mittens, she set two cranberry scones on one of the plates with tongs. She grabbed the burnt toast from the toaster with the same tongs, and placed them to another plate. She took another deep breath, letting the sun bask into her body despite the chill that came with it. The wooden-framed windows stood from ceiling to floor, covering two sides of the kitchen wall, the one opposite to the island and the one to the right of the fridge. 

With the mug of hot chocolate in her hand, she took a sip that singed the tip of her tongue. It surprised her, accidentally sloshing the liquid. Drops of hot chocolate landed on her pink pyjama pants. She wiped them off before she walked towards the windows on the right wall that showed an extensive view of lush green gardens.  The property is amazing. It was actually inherited to him—to them—as a wedding gift. The house was originally intended as a summer home, perching nicely in the suburbs well-known for its luxurious estates. She sighed. She had married the right person. She had absolutely no knowledge of his wealth, until he proposed to her and had to ‘fess it all up. She loved him before; she’d continue loving him even without the riches.

The sound of slippers dragging above the wooden floor became prominent as it grew closer. A fit-looking man with jet black hair rubbed his eyes, his white shirt hung loose and wrinkled from tossing and turning in his sleep. His other arm dangled loosely at his side, his fingers lightly brushing his blue-and-white boxer shorts. It reminded her of last night, but she dismissed the tickling memory away. She turned around and her lips grew automatically into a smile. 

[The square is now green]

Perhaps you remember the first time we properly talked, acknowledging each other’s presence fully. Though you weren’t (and still aren’t) physically there, I knew you’ll be able to distinguish me. At least that was better than being invisible. Perhaps you remember the first time I said hello, in a language that was not mine, a language that seemed far too distant for me to comprehend. With you, it didn’t seem so much a distance. And you were glad I remembered the phrase. And I had to smile. Perhaps—just perhaps—I’ve been around your mind, as you in mine as our talk stretched along with time, and we’ve always had something to talk about. 

Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps you don’t. 

Perhaps you’ve been etched to my mind, a condition that caused me to toss and turn at the sight of your absence. [The square is now orange]. I’ve reached right the edge of the cliff; almost falling, but you reached out and I hung in the air, hands grasping your arm. But you knew what I felt (you lifted the porcelain pink heart-shaped thing but put the cold thing down, cracking half of its plump porcelain body), your eyes were humid with sorry, yet you let my grip slip away. 

And I free fall, letting the wind slam against my body as gravity pulls me with its hardest. 

[The square is now orange]

In the silence, felt hot, fat tears dripping down my cheeks. I scramble to my feet, and tried to build back whatever had been ruined. [The square is now green] Oh, how a small colored square had the power to send me in elation. 
We were back, but never the same. Perhaps you still feel sorry, perhaps I made it strange to be able to talk again. But again, perhaps you don’t. The long chain of words were gifts of the first few times. As time ticks it grew shorter and shorter — I could not identify the emotion of the letters you wove.

From every day, to every three other weeks and maybe a month will pass.

[The square is now green]

Should I.

[The square is now orange]

Should I not?

[No more square]

You have gone. 

[The square is now green]

I could not feel elation creeping up my chest. The stench of wistfulness is crisp like the appetizing smell of a freshly baked extremely-thinly-cut potato chip. It swallowed the remaining elation that managed to creep onto my throat.

It is now just a square. Orange or Green is no difference. I ignite first. Always. And it is tiresome. Very tiresome. Thus the colored square is of no meaning. 

It is just a square with his name next to it.

For he who seek visage
With piercing eyes he must seek
Visions others would call a mirage
Would you like to take a peek?
Now you shall see
The writhing ecstasy
Of a maiden who longs to free 
Her mind, thoughts roll like waves in the sea
Perhaps it will be exciting to see 
Especially with a glass of iced tea ;) 

_{photo credit: melk}