Just call me Saffron, will you?

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Saturday, March 20, 2004

I think Friendster is the coolest thing ever since the invention of toilet paper. Ohkay, maybe not the coolest, but it's somewhere in my top 5 list after chocolate.

Yeah, so, like I was saying, since Friendster is so cool and all, it isn't all that surprising that I chanced upon a really cool bulletin message posted by an old crush of mine. It was entitled "Dedicated to that Special Someone".

Funny enough, there was this strange tingly feeling that raced down my spine when I saw the heading. So, fine, I was only about 15 when I had a crush on him, but you know what it's like...right? Our relationship was a pretty complex one (yes, even when I was only 15 and he, 17). It was one of those friendships that made me love and hate him at the same time. One of those friendships that made me thank God every single day for bringing him into my life. Yet, it was also one of those friendships that made me loathe my very own existence...just because I met him. I loved him so much that I hated him, hated myself for loving him.

Now, now. Love itself, in my world, is a pretty complicated matter altogether. I loved him for being my teacher, my friend and my confidante. I loved him for the walks we used to take and the giggles and laughter that we shared. I loved him for the tips we swapped in the pool and the long and gruelling training sessions that he helped brighten up. I loved him for all the nonsensical chats we had online and longs talks about nothing in particular. I loved him for those long stretches of comfortable silences between us and I loved him for his reassuring presence.

Yet, for all the love that I had for him, he loved her more. Strangely, I didn't hate her. I couldn't hate her. I wondered what she was like. I wondered what was it about her that he loved. And I wondered what was it about me not to love. I wondered if he would ever find out that I loved him the way he loved her.

And then I hated myself. I hated the fact that I met him. I hated the fact that I loved him. I hated the way I looked, the way I walked, the way I talked. I hated everything about myself. Everything. I hated the fact that I simply wasn't her.

I began to ask myself questions that no one had the answers to. I asked myself why God had brought him into my life. I asked myself if I was falling in love with him, or if I had, indeed fallen in love with him, the way Juliet had fallen in love with Romeo, the stuff I see on TV. I asked myself many more questions after that. Questions that no one had the answers to. No one, but myself.

So I cried and I dragged myself into the pits of emotional hell. Suddenly, I knew. I knew the answers to all my questions. And they all led to the same thing. I knew. I knew why he didn't love me the way he loved her and I knew if I'd fallen in love with him without even realizing it. I knew exactly the reason God made him walk into my life.

He didn't love me the way he loved her because I wasn't her. And, yes, the horribly warm and sickening sensation that made me want to curl up and die had just about confirmed that I was indeed in love with my friend, my mentor, my confidante. It was a sick, horrible feeling of realization that tasted vile in my mouth, extemely bitter on my tongue.

All those movies that I've watched...they didn't tell me this was what falling in love would be like. I felt cheated.

And then I knew why God had sent him to me. It was so that I'll have a taste of one of those strange, whirly, roller coaster emotions they call unrequited love.

Now, years later, I still get a tiny flutter of butterflies in my stomach at the slightest mention of his name (or in this case, posts he'd made in Friendster). And my heart still skipped a beat when I read the post.

"I know if she is a dream, I never want to wake. If she is real let me never sleep."

I know how it feels like, old crush. I know.

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