Waiting

I’d like to think that he needed time.

Time to pull himself together. Time to gather his thoughts. Time to remember.

I was willing to wait for him, but I never thought I would wait this long.

I’ve been watching him from a distance, wishing he would look my way, even if all I would do is hide from him. He’s always had such a powerful gaze. When he looks at you, he would certainly make you feel that you have his complete, undivided attention—as if you’re the only person in this world he sees.

He never failed to make me feel this way, and I’d like to believe that whenever I would look at him, I had his attention—his heart. Of this I am sure.

I gave him the time and the space I felt he needed to pull himself together. I gave him the time I thought he needed to remember.  Remember what?

The then, and the now.

I wanted him to remember what we were—what I was to him—and what I am in his life now.

I was his childhood sweetheart, the love of his life—and I still am. Three years ago, he asked me to marry him, but I knew in my heart that it was a half-hearted proposal. I had to ask him three times whether his mind was truly made up. Three times. He couldn’t even look at me in the eye. I found his proposal foolish; his timing was pretty messed up. However, I couldn’t bring myself to hate him for his stupidity. So, I told him to ask me again after three years when he’s truly ready—when he’s ready to lay down his cards and tell me that he wants me to stay by his side. I didn’t know what I was asking of him.  I loved him more than anything in this world. I had to give him a chance, but I had to leave him too. I didn’t want to interfere with his affairs—he needed to find himself before he can find his heart, which rests lovingly on the palm of my hand. I own his heart. It belongs to me.

At that time, I wondered if I was more stupid. I was hurting, so what difference did it make?

Three years later, on the same day, in the same place, I still wait for him. If you ask me how sure I am that he will come back to me, I can tell you simply that I, too, do not know. And this scares me.

But as it is, he’s here. My heart is soaring at the sight of him. His jet black hair looks longer now, carefully parted on the side. He looks comfortable wearing that crisp white buttoned-down shirt and those gray trousers. He was never really that particular about fashion, and his looks for that matter. But I remember how much he enjoyed it whenever I would dress him up. I know his taste in clothes.

I wonder if I’ll be able to do it again for him.

The past was definitely ours. But the present?

Now, where did he go?

I was so lost in my thoughts that I didn’t notice the couch he occupied is now empty.

Where did he go? Did he finally decide to leave?

I can feel my heart racing, my breathing quickening.

Perhaps he went to the bathroom to relieve himself? He’ll be back, right?

Are these tears in my eyes?

This heavy downpour and the brisk air are muddling my thoughts. This coffee shop is too stifling. All of a sudden, I’m finding it rather difficult to breathe. I need to leave this place.

I need to find him. It cannot end this way.

I take a few steps away from the back of the mirror that has served as my makeshift hiding place since I entered this coffee shop.

Why won’t the tears stop falling?

I reach for my purse, but strong fingers tug on my hand. These same strong fingers bring my hand to lips that were awfully familiar to me. Those lips still managed to gift me with an arrogant, albeit breathtaking smile.

A gasp escapes me and my eyes widen at the sight of the man I’ve waited and pined for three empty years.

More tears as I watch him get down on one knee. Part of me wants to pull him back up and demand that he stop this foolishness once and for all. However, I didn’t bother doing so. This bold foolishness, is what I have prayed long and hard for.

“Three years ago, I asked you a question that you had to refuse because you thought I wasn’t being sincere,” I watch him take out a black velvet box from his pocket and open the box. The same diamond ring that he bought me three years ago rested on its velvet cushion. He fixes his gaze at me. It is the same powerful gaze I have come to love, but there is something else in this gaze.

Dear me, I see love in his eyes.

“Now, I ask you the same question. I’m hoping that this time you’ll give me the answer I’ve been waiting to hear. Because I don’t think I can bear not hearing you say the words. I might as well die if I can’t have you by my side.”

I fear that I might be flooding the coffee shop because the tears won’t stop streaming down my cheeks.

The people are starting to gather around us, too; I think I even hear some of the ladies sniffling in the background.

“I ask you again, sweetheart—my dearest love—will you give this man a chance to prove to you that his love is forever? Will you give this man the chance to love you as long as he’s living?”

No hesitations.

“Yes. I’m yours. All yours.”

With the ring in my finger, and with his arms around me, I know letting him go three years ago was worth it. The love that we shared and cherished for the longest time, after three years, did not die after all. 

He found himself. He found me. We found each other.