Why I Am Writing Again

By Angelle Baligod

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“Because you’re the only person I am comfortable opening up to... and I feel really safe with you.”

If I were still my 2021 self, I would have left right away. I would have composed a long not-so-sweet message and said, “Sorry, I’m not ready for this.” I would have run off to somewhere else only to be embraced by a stranger’s arms. I would have rather felt love through meaningless flirty remarks than his sincere confession. I would have rather received fake love from a stranger than genuine affection from a man who knew where to find the deepest scars on my skin. I would have rather been with a man who wanted me for my body than with the only man who would know where my birthmarks are after seeing them the first time.

Because the irony was this, I never got my heart broken by being in casual relationships.

My heart, on the other hand, was always crushed to dust when I let it function more than what my body needed. Every damn time, reality slaps me: I am always better off with my heart pumping blood through my body than letting my heart control my entire mind and body.

I encountered him the same way I met my mistakes. I was lost; I felt like a traveler who misplaced their map as they were in the middle of their journey. I was an artist who cannot move her hand to paint, a sculptor who cannot find the right clay, and a seaman who, in some unexplainable ways, is now afraid of the ocean.

I was a writer who lost her will and creativity to write. I cannot seem to find the right rhymes for my love poems. I cannot think of accurate analogies for my essays. I cannot paint the pictures of my fictional stories through my words. For a period in my life, I lost all the meaning of the thousands of words I knew.

When we crossed paths, I thought that it was just another disposable thing; one that will not remember my name when he woke up the next day and I, with him. I do not normally admit this, however, this time I am glad to say this: I was wrong the entire time.

He does not only remember my name. He remembers my favorite rom-com movie. He remembers the last time I cleaned my room. He remembers the last time I had my monthly period. He remembers what time I slept the previous night or if I even had any. He remembers my mother’s favorite hobby.

He does not only remember my name; he remembers who I am. And I, with him.

I remember his favorite movie, Wolf of Wallstreet. I remember his mom’s unique name. I remember his genuine love for turtles and fascination for all kinds of animals. I remember how much of a nerd he is for computers and games. I remember his first words to me when we first talked and how he boasted about our conversation with his friends. I remember how he talked to his parents about me. I remember how excited he gets whenever he tells me how his day went. Most importantly, I remember all the soft melodies of his words each time he reminds me of his love.

Even if I remember all our moments pixel by pixel, I sometimes fear that I would forget. And so, I write. Counting this piece as one, it amazes me how I can write this piece continuously when I used to take days to finish a well-thought, creative essay. Every piece I write about him is a never-ending piece; I cannot seem to know how to them as does my love for him.