Our story has been written so many times.
In this blog, in my journals, in my phone.
In torn pieces of notebook paper that I get when I am bored during lectures.
In table napkins that I secretly write on when you are not looking.
In train tickets and airplane boarding passes.

Our story has been told countless times.
To friends listening over cooking beef.
To audiences willing to listen to spoken poetry.
To visitors of this blog who once dared to listen to my only soundcloud recording.
To strangers who sat beside me in flights I took to forget you.
To bartenders and baristas who never ceased to give me fuel-both beer and coffee-just to keep going.

Our story has been captured in so many photographs.
Of us doing random things.
Of our food trips and pigouts.
Of our adventures and misadventures.
Of you giving that smile while staring at me with those brown eyes.
Of me in awe of my favorite photography subject.

From our story, there is one story I’ve always wanted to hear.
And the story I once dreamt of writing.
Your story.
You who went through the struggles of being bullied for who you are.
Yet, you made sure to rise up and show them they can never be half the person that you are.
You who loved so deeply.
Who have failed so many times but have proven that failures make you the better person than you once were.
You, whose fears are dark and deep.
Who is afraid of seeing what’s beneath the stairs or what lies in the dark.
You who valiantly faced your abyss just to bring light into it.

I wanted to tell your story of how you used your weaknesses to your advantage.
How strong you are even when people only see your frailties.
How brave of you in taking risks.
How you deep inside you are fighting your demons, when all that others see is you being carefree.

I wanted to tell the story on the little things about you.
Like you move your ears when you’re anxious.
Or you cook really good
And you eat really fast.
That you hate the cold weather.
That you always forget your umbrella,
And would in times go home wet.
That you were hooked with that Chinese TV series,
And crushed on that Chinese dude.

I want them to know how you would held my hand from beneath the table,
Or that moment we held pinkies while walking along España.
That we have this staring contest,
Usually before we eat.
That you wrote “I love you, please stay” secretly in one of my books.

I’ve always wanted to hear your story.
The same way I’ve wanted to unravel the mystery.
I’ve always wanted to tell your story.
The same way I wanted everyone to see our story.

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