Teenage Dream

You probably don't want to know me at all, I'm guessing. But let me just tell you one thing. If there is something that I don't really have much faith on in this world, it is on looking back. I have no interest in looking back. Not when the plane landed on 12 midnight on Philippine soil; not when Jackson and Raymond invited me for a little get-together after 3 long years over skype; and especially not after my fiancé and I stepped inside the café where we are supposed to be meeting. It was a good thing too. Because looking back for me usually meant frustration and regret. My motto in life is carpe diem. Once upon a time, it used to be Y.O.L.O., but someone had to change it, of course. And I don't want to remember that someone anymore. See what I mean? So, anyway, yeah. I have little to no interest in looking back. Not until I heard that first vibration of vocal on the microphone from up on that little stage. According to Jack, the café hosts an open mic live every Friday night. So that explains the number of people pouring out of the café. It was rather unusual to have that kind of crowd in a place like this. I thought that they were just kidding when they said café and that the place was secretly a cop bar in disguise. But onstage, there were bad and good spoken poetries, oratorical pieces, declamation, and lots and lots of acoustic music going on. Still, I had to raise an eyebrow to Jack and Ray. "What?" Jack, who was across our little coffee table, said while munching his croissant while Ray also raised his own eyebrow and tugged the corner of his mouth to a smirk. "So, whose idea was this?" I asked, dipping a strawberry to my choco au lait. "It was our idea. Why? Don't like it?" "Stop dragging me into this," Ray protested. "I had warned you that—" "Open mic lives are lit, you guys. It is a compendium of raw creativity and talent. Hasn't anybody told you that? Dy, I hate to ask, but haven't you been taking care of the education of this woman?" Jack, nodding to my direction, asks my fiancé who's just beside me. "Well, I've been trying to. But this woman likes handling her education herself," Dylan, my forever dear, smiled sweetly at me with his dreamy, twinkly eyes that never fails to make ladies swoon. "Isn't that right, love?" (It doesn't work on me, don't worry. And he knows it). "I think we're supposed to be grossed out," Jackson said. "I know. Just keep eating," Raymond replied as he took another croissant from his plate. Dylan and I chuckled. "I have nothing against open mic lives, just so you know, you giant nerd. I have nothing against creativity either. You," I waved my fork at Ray and Jack, "my fellow bandmates, should know. I just wouldn't thought that you'd both go all acoustic on me. I mean, what happened, I thought we had pledged our souls to rock 'n roll." "Yeah, and you're marrying Dylan," Jack said, rolling his eyes. "Hey--!" I stood up and smacked his shoulder.  "Ow! What's the deal? All I'm saying is that," he sighed and looked straight into my eyes, "years change people, Aurora. I mean, look at us. Ray and I are rocking the hell out of these beards when three years ago we were just thinking it. And you, you have Dylan now. Three years ago, it was—ow! Why did stomp on my foot?!" He looked at Ray with his knitted eyebrows. Thank you, Raymond. "You're talking too much. Here, have another croissant." Ray said as he shoves a whole piece of bread into Jackson's mouth. He then looked at me and Dylan. "What he's trying to say is that, it's inevitable. Like, can you confidently say that you are the same person you were before? Case on point, your shoes. You're not wearing those obnoxious leather boots anymore, are you?" "And... I just have to add," Jack tried to speak while munching away with his croissant-filled mouth. Yep. That much hasn't changed, Jacky. "We don't hold anything against your marriage. I was just trying to make a point. I hope you don't..." He looked apologetically at Dylan. "No, no. It's fine. I've known you guys for such a long time. It's cool, man," Dylan answered, grinning. I sighed. "I just wish you know how to shut up sometimes." I looked at Dylan. "You okay, hon?" "Don't worry. It's not a big deal to me," he smiled. He is just so... kind. Like, everything and just anything I do is okay to him. It doesn't matter if I mess up or I'm being the greatest b***h of the universe, he'd still be okay with it. Like, if I murdered someone, he'd still come up to me and say, "Don't worry, love. It's okay." Which is why I kind of hate him sometimes. I wish he'd be selfish for once or just get mad at me, at least. Because even if he says that it's not a big deal to him, it still is to me. It's not cheating. I mean, I wouldn't call it that, if you're asking. It just bothers me still from time to time. And it doesn't change anything. I'm marrying Dylan Jones and that's final. Whatever is going on in my mind, it will remain there as nothing more than a thought. It can't touch what we're trying to build in real life. I shift my eyes to the stage, afraid that he would see right through me if I stare for too long. The next performer is a young lady dressed in a flowing dress just an inch above the knee. On the dress are what look like waving black turrets in varying heights, and a small town, painted in blue, just below it. The sky was painted in thick and swirling brush strokes with orbs of yellow and whites in it. The Starry Night, I suddenly realize, by Van Gough. What a thing to wear in an open mic live. And her shoes—I gasp. Even from this distance I can tell that those are un-apologetically made of glass. It was a perfect match to her snowy field stockings. Like, there's a snowy field picture on her stockings. Her brown curls are neatly tamed in a high ponytail. And she's wearing a blue rhinestone-studded masquerade mask in uniform with her guitar. Everything about her screams 'romantic,' the type that I adamantly avoid. "Oh, there she is." I heard Ray whisper to our group. "Who is she?" I asked, genuinely curious. I mean, why's she wearing a mask? Is that a thing you do in open mic lives? "Rain So," Jack simply whispered. "Aka, the reason why Jacky can't get himself married," Ray deadpanned. "What's that supposed to mean?" Dylan asks, grinning to Jack. "Exactly what it means. Our friend Jacky here seems to be utterly and disgustingly head over heels smitten for—" "Okay, shut up, everyone!" Jackson waved his hands wildly. "Shut up. The goddess is about to sing." As Jack glues his eyes on the stage, the three of us exchange looks. What the hell? I look at Ray. I know, right? He seems to say to us, shaking his head. Dylan shakes his head. Boy, he's in trouble. The band at the back starts to play. She strums her guitar seconds later. She leans in to the mic to sing. And then, when the first note escapes her lips, the thing that I don't believe in, happens. Everything comes rushing back. Memories. Hundreds—thousands of memories come rushing back because of that voice.  ["Don't be silly," she said, closing her books and stacking them in a neat pile. "If I just wanted to kiss you, I would've done it by now." I raised an eyebrow, issuing a challenge. "Really now?" "Uh-huh. So why don't you just run along and find somebody else to flirt with?" "If I know better, you're just being shy. There's no way that a Miss Goody Two Shoes like you would actually—" It happened so fast that I didn't get the chance to react when she grabbed the collar of my blouse. It happened so fast that I didn't even get the chance to close my eyes when my lips crashed into hers. And before I could, she was already pushing me away and gathering her things from the table. "Happy weekend," she smirked before making her way out of the library.] Seriously now. Of all memories... I squeezed my eyes shut to stop myself from further remembering. From remembering. Before I get to the part where I know would make my world shake. But the funny thing about your mind is that, you are powerful when you learned how to control it but helpless when it rebels to your wishes. And yes, it was beyond my control when it opened the secret chamber where I kept the memories that I no longer want to resurface in my life. [She was crying.  "You know, I didn't want to fall in love. But you are my everything. Always will be. Why would you do this to me when all I ever wanted is to protect you?"] I certainly don't want this particular memory to pop up in my mind either. God, I hate this song. This song the Starry Night girl is singing. Rain So. I don't care who she is. All I know is that I don't like her song or her, actually. Romantics. I am well-acquainted with their type. I've dated a lot of them in the past. They do this kind of s**t to you. Always so dramatic like they can't seem to resist it.  But you know what's worse than romantics? Romantic artists. They write you poems and proses, sing songs, play music, paint your picture, make you fall in love. And when you're already hanging at the tip of their finger, they trample your heart without mercy. They have that kind of power. That's why I hate most of their lot. And when you fall for one, you're already in hell territory—the land of masochists. I mean, it's not all bad. You're going to find yourself in a flower garden at first. But the longer you stay, it will become painful. The flowers will decay, the butterflies will migrate to another garden, until one day you'll find yourself standing in a barren piece of land. The artist will hand you an empty watering can convincing you to water the land by singing a song or reciting a poem they have written for you. And you would fall for it every single time, believing in the promise to see that beautiful floral world again. Take my word for it, I'm talking from experience. Which is why I never dated—committed—to another one of their kind again.  And if Jacky is really set out to pursuing this songstress, then boy, he really is in deep s**t. I'm not kidding. This song about asking for forgiveness, giving up someone but still loving them with all your heart, being helplessly, pathetically in love. I hate everything about it. And most of all, I hate myself for hating it. Because those are the things that I've been always wanting to tell her for a long, long time. The audience is enthralled. So am I. When she finished playing, the entire café cheers. And I don't know what to do with myself. Maybe cry. But maybe later. When I've already comprehend why I'm feeling the way I feel to some song and some singer I've never heard of before. "Who is she?" I leaned on the table. "I told you moments ago," Jackson says, incredulous, as he applauds with the rest of the room. "Rain So." "Yeah, thank you so much for pointing that out, although I might be mistaken which really I'm not... I'm asking for her real name, you goldfish." "I don't know." Dylan nearly choked from his drink. "You poor thing." I couldn't help but chuckle. "What, so you're not really serious about her?" "Of course, I am." "Yeah, you don't even know her real name." "Or her face, as a matter of fact," Ray added, a-matter-of-factly. My jaw dropped open. "Really now." "It's only a matter of time, okay, before I figure out who she is. Actually, I think I already know a lot about her. I mean, listen to her music!" He exclaimed, angrily stabbing a strawberry from my saucer. "And who cares about names, anyway? It's just a word. I could call her Arianna Grande or Sia for all I care. And who cares about her face? Those are only superficial things. There is more to a person than their face and name." All the time he's talking, I pay close attention to his face. And, boy, is this guy serious about what he's saying. I've seen that look before. Dreamy eyes, helpless voice—this poor, poor creature. I tear my eyes away from him because all I can think of saying now when I see him looking like that is... pathetic. I excuse myself for the powder room because I can't bear to hear any the rest of this pathetically stupid unrequited crush of my friend over a stranger. Hopefully, he'll come around in time. My mind, however, seems to have taken a liking on that particular stranger as it refuses to leave her memory in mind alone. It's not even the first time that something like that has happened to me. In the past, there had been many moments when a performance or an art piece touches me too deeply that it stays with me for a long time. That's okay. Its art—it's supposed to make you feel that way. But this time, it's different. Maybe it's the voice. Her voice resembles so much of hers. I bide my time in the washroom. There are only a few people inside and most of them are hurrying out to get back outside. A couple of minutes pass and there's only me in the powder room. Well, me and an unopened stall. So technically, there are two of us in the room.  I study myself in the mirror. My fingers brush a few strands of my straight black hair and tuck it away at the back of my ear. The light make up I had applied still looks fresh on my devastatingly high cheekbones (my best asset, apparently, as countless people have told me). So is the nude lipstick I had painted on my full lips just for tonight. Kohl lined my thin almond eyes that brings out its dark brown color. I inspected my dress—a two piece dress with black tube top and white a-ling skirt embroidered with black medieval patterns—and all the way down to my heels. Nothing out of order so far. Actually, I don't need any of this s**t. I could simply walk into a room without makeup or designer dress or these heels and still look amazing. (I'm 5'8", by the way. Dylan and I are almost leveled. Can't wait to see how short our babies would be when we get married). In other words, I had no business here. But my mind does.  It needs space from all that incomprehensible chits and chatter to make things align. Because that girl—why? Why am I so bothered? It's just a song. Or so I've been telling myself. But with that voice singing that song. "Forgive me..." It takes me back although I do not want to be back. [My feet were frozen in place. I wanted to touch her. To hold her. To apologize. But I was scared that I have lost my right to all of that. "I can't even look at you," her voice was barely above a whisper but I heard the pain and anger in it just as loudly and clearly as through an amplifier. "You..." She bit her lip and looked at me. I wish she wouldn't. I don't want her to look at me with those eyes—burning hot with anger, hatred, and everything I didn't want to see in it. I wanted the eyes that only looked at me with tenderness. The ones that I had promised to protect.  The eyes that I have stolen away.  "You've ruined everything."] Shaking my head, I will the thought away. No looking back. No looking back, remember? That bridge has been burnt for such a long time. There's even no water under it. Don't go there. Funny. Because even before I can convince myself, the unopened toilet stall opens, revealing the girl that has been messing with my head since the first nineteen seconds of her performance.  Rain So. The Starry Night. She was still wearing her mask and I could feel her eyes stare at me. At my horrified, frozen body. I can't move. No words come to mind that would be an appropriate thing to say to her right now.  And then it hit me: I don't really need to say anything to her, do I? I don't even know her. So as casually as I can muster, I turn around and pretend to fix my hair. "Bonsoir," I hear her say as she walks closer to me. "Enchentee te de recontrer."  My heart—or should I even call it that? At this point it's just a random stupid pumping machine that shouldn't be in any part of my body—can't seem to handle French so it starts beating like a taiko drummer high on drugs. If I closed my eyes now, it would be like having her speak to me like it had only been yesterday. Except, she didn't speak French. "Sorry, I don't speak French," I almost say but then I realize something: does she think I'm an i***t or something? Because why the heck is she deliberately talking to me in French in a country where Filipino and English are the two national languages just right after she sang an English song that—if Jackson's words were any indication—is most likely written by her? So... "Yeah? f**k you." I told her.  Just kidding.  Of course, I didn't. Because I think it's rude. So I just raise an eyebrow briefly at her direction and turn back again at the mirror. "Je vois que vous êtes fiancé," she stands beside me and busies herself with fixing her hair, too. I look at her, surprised. French is not my forte but I can make out what she's trying to say. Fiance. She must be asking if I'm engaged. She looks and me and tugs the corner of her lips. "La bague."  She lifts her fingers. I think she's saying "finger" or "ring" or "ring finger," whatever. Just that, I get it, okay? I should give her some credit for not dropping the French act. Maybe she's just fluent in French and likes showing off. Or maybe she just gets high on making herself look stupid. Or the other on that matter, since there are only two of us in the room. "Oh, yes," I touch the engagement ring bashfully, suddenly self-conscious. She nods. "Felicitations." I don't know what that means so I just say, "Merci beaucoup" in my shitty French accent that makes me want to throw myself in the ocean right now. This is so weird. Why am I talking to her? I should've just ignored her and walked out of here like nothing happened. There is some rustling and I see her pull out a pen and a scrap of paper from a white purse I didn't see her carrying before. "Autograph?" She asks. "Oh, no, no," I wave my hands. "I'm not really..." Interested, I almost say. But that's not really a nice thing to say to someone who's not doing anything wrong. So I just say, "I'm not really a fan." She isn't listening and continues to scribble away. "I know." She smiles and hands me the paper. "But you will be." Before I can even retort, she is already getting out of the door, guitar case strapped on her back.  "A bientot, mademoiselle." And the door closes quietly at her wake. I knew you could speak English, dammit! My foot hit the ground rather hard and it sends pain to my heel and ankle. I wince. My eyes, then, look at the piece of paper—parchment, I correct myself, I am holding. Powder blue parchment. (Is this a thing now? Carrying parchment around with them?) Written in an elegant script are some French words that doesn't mean a thing to me: tu me manques. She should've just written her name, that Frenchie weirdo. Jack is up onstage when I settle down again on my seat at our table. Of course he would be there. It's impossible to talk about music without Jackson actually doing it. He's up onstage, acoustic guitar on his lap and him singing a popular Tagalog love song. He is so much suited for acoustic music although he was so adamant about it before. He'd have an edge to his voice that usually threw the whole band every time we try to discuss it. But now it seems like any inhibitions he had about his music is gone. As he strums away with his guitar, I am lost to the sound of his voice. This song was my favorite. Was because it isn't anymore. Now it's just one of those many songs that I liked but never makes it to my playlist. And there is only one reason. It's always just one reason. When the song is over, all three of us are applauding like we've seen a Julliard-worthy performance. There's a toothy grin in Jackson's face and for a moment, I wish for our good ol' band days back. "You've improved," I smile as he reclaims his seat. "You used to sound like a dying bird when we sang together in the past. Dylan and Raymond both snicker. "Poor girl," Jackosn reclaims his seat at our table. "For a second I thought you were talking about ye self." We are all talking about a reunion with our other bandmates when our attention goes back to the stage. And for the second time this evening, she is up on there again. Rain. "Good evening again, everyone," she says to the mic. "I know we're supposed to use the stage only once, but it looks like quite a lot of you like my humble performance, thank you very much. So, I've been granted another turn to share my music with you for the second time." The audience cheers. I don't want to join in but the hopeful smile on Jackson's face is hammering my stone cold heart. So I clap along. "The next song I'm going to sing is for those who have loved lost," she briefly looks down at her guitar while releasing a tiny breath. "But decide to continue loving anyway." And again, she sings another song I'll hate. There's something--something in her voice that makes me...ache. That sorrow, that pain behind that mask. That desperation. She makes them feel so real. And they are to me. They seep through my skin and into my very bones. This girl whom I've only spoken to coincidentally makes me feel alive through the hurt in every acoustic wave she sings. She may be a little cracked in the head, but as I watch her now, the frustration envelopes me in a way I don't understand. What I want at the moment is just irrational. But still I know what it is. It pulses hotly in my veins. Screaming, almost jumping at me to do something. I want her to not sing another song that f***s people in the heart. I want— Goddammit. I want her to stop crying. I wake up in the middle of the night feeling the sore all over my body. Dylan is sound asleep beside me. My throat feels dry and it hurts to swallow. Not bothering to cover my nakedness, I crawl out of bed and walk clumsily towards the kitchen, almost slipping over the clothes we had strewn across the floor in our moment of passion. After replenishing my parched vocal tract, I sit in the living room and idle. There are clothes near the ottoman where I had stumbled but caught in the strong arms of Dylan. As my eyes travel on the articles of clothing littering the marbled floor, my thoughts wander on the most unlikely of places. Back to that cafe, to the girl wearing Van Gogh. Rain. It's strange. Usually, when I think about artists or tradesmen, I think about their style, their skill level, the execution, and other technicalities of their craft. I become the most cynical of critics. But now as I think about her, I think about HER. Not the artist but the person behind that persona. Rain So. Invert them and you get So Rain. I shake my head. Mentally slapping myself for where my thoughts are heading. She's crying... So Rain. It almost seems like a song. This is stupid. I've just had s*x with the man I'm marrying in a couple of months. But here I am, mulling over that strange musician with a strange name. Again. I should go back to my room, make love some more and never think about her again before I get married. Because she's making me remember things I thought I've already left behind. I haven't even taken a step when I notice a crumpled piece of paper peeking out of my half-opened purse. Great. It's the paper from the evening. Correction: parchment. Because I know now that she's a romantic type of person who carries parchment in her guitar case to make a point. I gingerly pick it up knowing the words written in it still wouldn't make any sense to me like before. "Tu Me Manques" Yep. It still reads that. Oh why did I even bother? It's not like it's going to magically translate into English when I open it at midnight. Translate. Oh... now there's an idea. It must've been the exhaustion or maybe I'm just not thinking things through. Not considering what I might have to face after learning what it means. But I find myself fumbling for my phone in my purse half awake, half asleep. When it's at last in my hands, I type letters in the Google translate bar and press the search button. For one split second, as the words pop on the screen, my hands turn cold, my heart beat so fast, I become fully awake in an instant. All the exhaustion from before has long dissipated. My mind not comprehending the words in the screen despite them being in a language I've grown to breathe as flashes of Rain So played in my mind in a maddening speed. What could this possibly mean? Is it what I think it is? Is SHE who I think SHE IS? I didn't--I DIDN'T KNOW. I didn't know that this is what I'd find. Didn't anticipate that it would bring back the storm that had destroyed me mind and soul in all those faded years. My head aches when my heart started to pump wildly. I unwillingly close my eyes to will the emotions away. But they won't go. They've gotten tired of hiding in that dark, musty cabin in my head. They need to get out. They need air. And they are spiraling out of my control. ["Flo! My love..."] The voices. ["Rence..."] The pictures... ["My love, you must know..."] I see her. I see her running across the campus, towards our study table, towards me. I see her smiling as she walks straight to me after a busy day of classes, club activities, and meetings. I see her teary eyed as she comes closer to hug me after successfully landing a job. I see her crying as all her dreams come shattering in the background. I see her. I hear her. Everything is happening inside my mind. And it won't stop. ["Florence."] It's making my head spin, driving me to dizziness. As I squeeze my closed eyes harder, the translated words shine a harsh light at the back of my eyelids. The only light I have amidst all the darkness. Three little words, enough to shake the brand new castle I've built for a new life for me. Three words—that's all it took. Three f*****g words that shouldn't have been written and by her own hand with the deliberate intent of having me read them. I curse for even thinking the pair of words I'm holding as an answer to hers but too damn afraid to taste in my mouth again. Because I'm afraid—no. I am absolutely terrified to shelter them again. Rain-- No, I know who you are now. You are no longer the same. You've changed so much, you had me completely fooled. You've become this cruel. And I will f*****g kill you. Over and over until none of myself would be left to love another living thing again. In that seemingly insignificant piece of parchment that I was about to throw into trash, she had told me in an elegant script, as if taunting, mocking, ridiculing the years and years I've wasted my life away for the three words I never needed to hear from her: "I miss you." And I would never tell her how, in that instant, I answered without missing a beat: "Me too."