A little over five years ago, I met a girl. It was a time when Justin Bieber ruled the music charts and using numbers and symbols as substitute to letters when texting was considered cool. The girl was neither short nor tall, had long hair, and bright puffy eyes. In the simplest terms, she was beautiful.
The girl and I were both part of the school organ; I liked writing while she, photography. She was the type of girl that would make you take a second look, laugh at the corniest joke, and forget the risk of diabetes if she was selling ice cream.
It is a given that I fell in love with the girl, no man in his right mind would not. I cannot find the right words to explain why or how. But I know that it was not ordinary love but the kind of love that would forcibly make me stop myself from smoking because her father did and she hated it.
Today she turns 16 or 17 or 18. I refuse to tell her age because to reveal it automatically reveals her identity. She would know, more than anyone, that writing disgusts me, that everything that I write exceeding a hundred words is considered special, and for me to pressure myself into writing this is showing how much she meant to me, as is evident in the poems and lines I wrote her then.
To you who I wrote this for, happy birthday! I know you are happy right now and you will be for the coming years. I’m sorry if this is all I can give you because I’m broke and school is drowning me in scripts, concepts, and theories. You know I’d be there if I can.
Everyone would know you’re weird. You like your fishballs in spicy sauce yet you don’t want the green chili although you like the color. Your fondness for vampires is misleading because you hate Edward Cullen. And your preference for Percy Jackson over Harry Potter is simply unacceptable in the normal world.
But know this: you are the only person to make me like Ed Sheeran, the only one to have me sing songs through voice messages over Facebook. You have a big heart, big enough to let a 75-kilo weird kid in. You are incredibly talented and you use that talent to inspire others. You are also, without question, the only one who made me realize that there is no perfect love, that just because it ended, does not mean it was not real.
I miss you more everyday since that fine October afternoon that we last saw each other. I still smell you cologne.
So to the girl in yellow lab gown, happy birthday!
I know you’ll go places.