Dear Mr. Someday..

I won’t get tired writing between the hours where the darkness of the night and the light of the morning merge, about you and me and the thing that simultaneously and paradoxically connects and sets us apart. I won’t get tired listening to your favorite song, and singing to it, thinking, even for once or twice or thrice, we’ve sung the same song. I won’t get exhausted stopping myself from impulsively rushing to you and hugging you every time I see you walking towards me because that’s what I really long to do ever since but that would be very outrageous. And I won’t get enough of how adorable you are in your flabby cheeks and bulging tummy, which I imagine myself hugging while asking you to assure me you’ll never leave.

They may tell me to get out, confess, speak up and reveal the truth, but they don’t understand that they’re suggesting me to burst out. As a matter of fact, I don’t enjoy the silence of this affection when the muffled screams of a confession manifests itself into clues and hints that might backfire and reveal me to you. I’m actually in pain bearing this huge secret in me that I have something special for you. I know this sounds very weird. Creepy, perhaps, for you to know that we barely know each other, and we only recognized each other’s presence with a nod few days ago, and the next thing you know, I actually am feeling something different and serious towards you.

Perhaps that’s the last thing you need right now — a distraction from your life. A burden to carry every time we see each other manifesting in guilt that you can’t love me back. That’s actually the last thing I want to do, to admit to you what I really feel. That’s why here I am, grieving over the moments that I want to spend with you.

For now, maybe I’ll just resort to the snapshots I have of you that I slideshow before I go to sleep. It’s really sad to think about this kind of love. I can’t admit to myself that I have feelings for you, can’t even use the L-term to name this mechanism I have because I’m afraid to get hurt again.

Maybe someday I’l have the guts to send this letter to you, handwritten in a scented paper that ought to be as sweet as my love. And I hope by then if you can’t send your love back, I’ll have more courage in me to accept it. For now, let me suffer for my own doing and for my own sake. And for now, I’ll go live my life as happy as I can be. Go to places I want to go to, sing songs that make me happy, fill my life with experiences that relieve me of this cruel world. For someday, you will be all those things at once. And I’ll be happy just by seeing you as my entirety, feeling you lying close to me like lovers meeting in secret in a field of lilies, smelling your familiar aroma and by mere being with you.

Dear Mr. Someday, I half wish this letter gets to you and it does not.

All my secret love,




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