Words Left Unsaid

She asked to see me again...ten years after the last goodbye.

It was already two o' clock in the morning, and we were still inside The Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf at Greenbelt, Makati City. In between her sips of cappuccino and my sips of Sunrise, we updated each other on the general areas of our lives. Ten years crammed into an hour and a half of conversation.

Where are we now after ten years? She is happily married with a four year-old son. I am still looking for that elusive true love. She said I am twice my size back in 1998. I told her she still looked the same.

"The same?" she asked, "Just like in those days when we used to hang out at the back of the PIPAC* building?"

I smiled at her and leaned back on my chair. She was the same girl all right. Black hair resting just below her shoulders. Skin so fair as the inside of a freshly-cut apple. Almond eyes that disappear every time she laughs.

The only difference is that ten years ago, those eyes were constantly shedding tears. She was coming from a painful break-up, and it pained me that I could not find the right words to console her. Back then, I knew nothing of pain. All I knew was the bliss of first love.

"Have you seen Mia lately?" she asked.

I knew it was only a matter of time before our conversation would turn to Mia, the third point in our triangle of friendship. She was her best friend and my first girlfriend.

"No," I answered, "How about you?" She shook her head in reply.

For a minute, there was silence between us.

Then, she looked into my eyes and said, "I just wanted to tell you that I got it."

"It,"  I knew, was the white rose I left on the windshield of her car ten years ago. On Valentine's day that year, I bought two roses - a red one for Mia and a white one for her. I spent the morning looking for her, only to learn from Mia that she did not go to class. I asked Mia to keep the white rose for her since they shared the first class the next day.

When I did see her the next day, she showed me the wilting white rose. Apparently, Mia placed it in the freezer in an attempt to preserve it. We both laughed at what happened. Then, unable to contain my joy, I told her that Mia finally gave me the "yes" I've been waiting for.

"That's great," she told me, her smile swallowing her almond eyes.

Goodbyes were exchanged for the moment, and we promised to meet each other for another soul-baring session.

Hours later, I was walking towards the back of the PIPAC building. She was there, crying as usual. Somehow, I felt betrayed that she could not wait for me before she started crying. Then, she flung her arm, and I saw the wilting white rose fall on the ground. I knew better than to sit beside her then. She started avoiding me after that day. Even Mia was surprised at her cold, silent treatment towards us. I never got the chance to talk to her again.

A semester and a heartbreak later, I left the Ateneo. Before I walked out of the university for the last time, I searched for her car - the white Toyota Corona with Mickey Mouse seat covers. I left a fresh white rose tucked under the wiper blade. At that time, I was ready to lose everything, but I was not ready to lose a friend.

I never heard from her again until she sent me a Friendster message: I know you don't drink coffee, but I'd like to have one with you.

The touch of her hand on mine brought me back to the present. She was smiling as she said, "Thank you." Ten years, I waited for that smile.

She finished her cappuccino, and I drank the remainder of my Sunrise drink. For ten years, I have been living with question marks and ellipses. I have been waiting for this chance to put a period to everything. There were several questions I wanted to ask, but at three quarters past two in the morning, all I could ask her was "Do you still remember the Chinese name you gave me?"

"Kan Ching," she answered. In English, it means "emotions."

Her phone rang. It was her husband, telling her he was waiting at the parking lot. She offered me a ride to EDSA. I told her Karen, my lover for the moment, was picking me up. I gathered our things and walked her to the door.

"Will it take ten years before I see you again?" she asked.

"Let's see," I answered with a sincere smile.

I watched her walk away. Out of my sight, but out of my mind? Somehow, questions seem more comforting than statements with finality.

*Philippine Institute for Pure and Applied Chemistry

**Finalist - Best Short Story, 2008 Catholic Mass Media Awards

***People's Choice Award, 2008 What's Your Coffee Bean And Tea Leaf Story? Competition