Troy on a Love Letter
My Dear Victoria,
It was 1993 when I stood up on a stage for an oratorical piece, shaking nervously in my brown trousers and white school shirt, my hair neatly swept to the right, Rizal-style. In the sea of faces among the spectators I saw you. Beautiful sharp features, messy in your majestic foamy dry hair and faded ruffled top. In my gut it felt like I've already known you, my precious girl. And in that moment you said you knew I was your sunset.
Love. You tell me years later, is a magical process of stone turning into gold, pupa to butterfly. You've compared it to alchemy.
Our eyes locked at a school field trip one hazy day, you were the last one to arrive. I remember that day. And I remember you told me decades after that in those brief seconds you visualized our souls connecting, something incredibly profound like genesis.
You told me you are committed to serenity. That you are on a mission of forgetting, letting the sun set. You are engaged. Taking a deep dive into hushing your heart, you believed. You said it's been 19 years of building the habit of not thinking about our memories. For the last eight years you tried anger, and then you tried hate. Perhaps you've succeeded, you expressed.
But you were wrong. This deep connection has survived hiatuses and long stretches of silence; words are not even needed. Somehow nothing can oust the sun, you uttered. When I kissed you one last time I whispered in your ears, in another life we belong together, you and I. You didn't lose me, you never will. I send as much love as ever.
I love you. Always.
Deeply moved by the bestselling book (that started off as a blog), Humans of New York Stories, I am making space for little stories from real people to spur me into thinking about and doing constructive things. We all have stories to tell, and they do carry a lot of weight. May the words and insights from these Little Stories translate into some form of hope, courage, and change above all else. ~Ray