“She’s called Summer because she lives in the summer capital. She’s an artist. She’ll meet this man who will be temporarily based in Baguio for a study. They fall in love, but the man has to go back to Manila to his lover.”
This was how a friend proposed to me her concept for another short story for her Creative Writing class. I laughed at how she played with the idea knowing both of us. This is not our story. Neither of us is an artist. But we were both temporarily based in Baguio for some scholastic reason. And yes, we did fall in love.
Ours was a story written in between sighs of exhaust and relief. We were each other’s escape from theories and statements. We were the names sketched at the back of our notebooks during dull classes. We were the love letters on the margins of our drafts. Ours were the emotions traced in your graphs. Ours was the beauty of the words I used in describing art.
Ours was a story of a thousand tales of transit, of reiterated chapters about profound conversations during long afternoon walks, of repeatedly mentioned cups of coffee after dancing in the rain.
But we were just each’s almost lover.
I have already buried our manuscript along with the pens we have used for writing. Our friend’s request might require some sort of excavation, some archival work. Hopefully, the aged and brittle pages are the remaining things to be unearthed – our emotions need not be anymore. They will only be relived in the bibliography – like history, reference, written document of what was.
*Plagiarize – to my friends and i’s dictionary, this means borrow; became a sort of inside joke/term after the plagiarism issue of the SC