For how her countenance still shines in my mind! Her beautiful smile, her luscious red hair, her toned round face, her entrancingly sweet brown eyes, and her voice. Oh! Her cute voice! There is a perpetual innocence that manifests itself within its light, fluffy sound. It brings me nothing but joy to hear its euphony and resonance on my ears. And her alluring giggle that she tries to cover with her hand! Why would you cover such an adorable noise? Hide such an intoxicating mien? For simply her presence alone could resurrect my senses from any tribulation, pander my feelings into a state of frenzy and euphoria. How the excitement bubbles within me as my eyes meet hers! As she waves her hand in greeting to me! For what have I done to grant me this interaction? To be able to associate myself with beauty that has never before been seen on this earth?

For it has been five years since I've met you, and the occasion still replays in my mind with vivid detail. I found you sitting alone underneath a walnut tree, a book in your hand. (Oh how there is always a book in your hand.) Silently reading you were, with that small smile on your face and finger twirling in your hair. I was speechless. Never before have I felt such an emotion. I paused on the trail I was walking along and pondered for what felt like forever. You caught my stare as you peered from your book, your face looking to me with a questioning look. You smiled at me with your beautiful complexion, inquiring me of my presence. I panicked. No words formed in my mind. A giant blanket of nimbose dominated my conscience as I scrambled for a reaction. I stood there, mouth agape, stuttering over myself. I fanatically gabbled an apology for my interruption. You chuckled and smiled at my stupidity, surely, adding a calming reassurance to your reply. You turned back to your book, that small smile returning. I tried to continue on my journey, but my legs cemented to the floor. My brain was rebelling my commands. As if I was possessed by some other being in my corporeal body, my mouth opened and I inquired specifically about the book that you were reading. You looked up from your book with a surprised face, your smile returning as you flipped the book to its title, absorbing the cover. "Some Sunday's Summer's Steppings." You looked to me with that cute smile. If I shall be honest (and they say that honesty is best), I never read much before this moment; yet, with you, predictably, I had no further wish but to read with you. I stumbled over my words further, asking you about the details of the novel. You looked at me and chuckled as you invited me under your walnut tree. That's when I learned your name, Mayl.

After that first day I would always find my way back to that same trail to that same walnut tree to that same woman. Every time I reunited with her there was a different book in her hand, a book that I would ask her about and listen to her intelligent discourse. I smiled as I heard her smart interpretations and understanding of the subtext that plagues the text of her choice. You were always more intelligent than I, for what am I intelligent with? My mind has been bounded by my stupidity, my slowness, for my predilection overpowers my intellection. Despite my confusion with most of the things you say, you always were able to explicate to me your thoughts and arguments in ways that even I may understand. You are a perfect teacher, a skilled instructor, for your intentions are honorable and admirable. Your brain is a carnivore for knowledge, a maze of acquaintances that overwhelms all other senses but your own. Am I envious? Am I jealous? I think not, for how can I desire something that I will never achieve? With you I am a student. With you I am your lesser. But you don't treat me like one. You treat me like an equal. Because of that there is no greater wish for me than to be able to speak with you with the prestige and pretension in which you emanate; yet, the conversation we did share will forever be with me. Your personality is the perfect companion to your pertness.

But when we are not speaking of novels, novellas, short stories, or even the infrequent poem or play, you delighted me with your wonderful laugh and smile. For you were the same age, and experiencing the same life. Our conversations extended far more into our education, our friends, our work. You were more popular than I would have thought. (But, of course, how could you not? How could I think such a fallatical thing?) And it became apparent that we were actually a friend of a friend. Although he was a neighbor to you, he was a teammate to me. A kind, honorable man that exposits sportsmanship that all should acknowledge. In fact, the first time I met him was on the soccer field. Although unbeknownst to me at the time, he was on the opposing team. It was the first game of the season, but, unfortunately, it had rained a couples hours before, making the field have pockets of mud spread about. Although this helped in terms of the sliding tackle, it didn't help with anything else. Teammates and opponents alike were constantly slipping on the field, causing for a sloppier game. I remained generally balanced and free from the mud's fugacious foothold. However, this changed during the third quarter of the game. In an aggressive move, I was able to steal the ball from my surprised opponent. As I began my dash down the field to the opposite goal, I tried to look back to deduce whether or not I was being pursued by my enemies and if any of my teammates were following after me. This curiosity pleaded dangerous as I misstepped into a puddle of mud and quickly dropped to the ground, the soccer ball rolling further in front of me. Luckily, I landed on my stomach and didn't roll or sprain my ankles. Fate as her own destiny, fortunately, as the player behind me slipped on the mud as well, and in the chaos he accidentally impaled my leg with some of the spikes of his cleat. The spikes weren't even a centimeter or so long, but they caused multiple punctures on my fleshy calf, which began bleeding almost immediately. I still remember clenching in pain as the back my leg began to spaz slightly out of shock. You, my culprit, my victimizer, were the first to be at my side. You were the first to help me from my feet and lead me to my bench. There was not a word from your mouth that wasn't an apology. The genuineness that dominated your voice is a color that I will never forget. A bandage was wrapped around my leg, and I was taken out the rest of the match. Yet, after the game was over (the winner I unfortunately lost to the sands of time, but surely it was you and your team who were the victors), I was again approached by you, this time accompanied with the gift of friendship. Later would I get the chance to play alongside you, Lan, rather than against you. I consider this to be one of the many blessings of my life.

A friendship was burnished in the steel of life that day. A friendship that, I supposed, would last for the length of our lives. As opponents he would come to me after the game and we would speak for a few minutes before our teams must divide and depart. As partners we would always speak with each other during practices, before games, during games, after games, not even to mention the countless times we abided each other outside of our sport. Yet, one moment forever prominences itself to me; I ascertained this conversation, and I hear it's reverbrance in the echoes of my mind. We were sitting at a park bench near the field, recovering from another loss; yet, our morale was high. We were appreciating our time together before you beamed with such expression that I never experienced from you. You retold your story of a childhood friend, a beautiful woman, a neighbor. A person for whom you had much affection. That was when you told me her name. You articulated your plan to inamorate her, to gift yourself as an appropriate novio for her, for she was manless. You were confident and gleeful in your plan, and I encouraged you, for how could I not feel happy for you? For what other emotion would be apposite? I smiled at him and wished him well and good fortune, for in the following days he would execute his masterplan. (Who knew that asking for a woman's hand in companionship was such a stressful and daunting task? Apropos to my initial encounter with her, I now understand in the hindsight the counterintuitive interactions between both the man and the woman in these scenarios. I forever wish fortune for those looking for the favor of woman.) As I left that day and returned to my dwelling, I pondered none on the implications or consequences of his prospect. I realized then that I forget to tell him about my friendship with the woman I will soon only call friend.

I returned, a few days later, to that same trail to that same walnut tree to a now different woman. Seated next to her was the man whom I so respected, his arm surrounding her shoulders and eyes whose sight focused more on her than the book she held in her hands. As you saw me approach, you smiled and waved with such enthusiasm and welcomed me under your tree. I greeted your new girlfriend, and you became shocked as she greeted me just the same. I will never forget the smile you showed as you laughed with surprise as we explained our friendship to you. Raptured were your eyes, yet your face flummoxed. Finally, you became ecstatic after realizing the fact that two of your closest friends were already acquainted with each other. It felt like hours as I stood under that tree, laughing and joking, chronicling anecdotes of our past, furthering the knowledge we know about one another. Alas, as with the forever marching of time, the day transitioned to twilight, and it was time for us to asunder and return to our humble abodes. As I validicted, as we began to walk our opposite ways, I turned and watched as you and her left, arms around each other, chuckling to yourselves, smiling, laughing, as you accompanied each other. I stood there, alone, isolated, chuckling at the cute sight that I beheld before continuing my walk home. In the depths of my heart, an event that not even I could witness transpired: a fracture formed within my heart; an ache slowly panged my being. Oblivious to this occurrence, I thought that I was happy. I thought that I was happy for them. I'm sorry.

Undetected my retching heart, moaning in its pain, for the following days. Wider the crevice split as the image of them walking away together projected itself even in my dreams. Unassuming I was, unaware to this pain, for I have never experienced such a loss. Numb would I be no more as I returned, as per my routine, to that same trail to that same walnut tree to... them—the woman whom I loved and the man whom I respected. As I laid my eyes on them, as they sat peacefully, tranquilly, underneath their tree, my heart burst with emotion; erupted from the fracture of my swollen organ the pain, the misery, the loss, the anguish of my denial— my denegation—the regret, the lamentation, the fear, the resentment, the dolor, the remorse, the rueing, the grief, the discomfort, the heartbreak. I felt tears begin to well in my eyes; my lips began to quiver. But it was too late. They spotted my arriving, and they greeted me with pleasure. I forced a smile on my face, for what else could I do? I could not confess to them these emotions. I greeted them, and, in the best of my ability, tried to create an excuse to leave. A believable excuse. What exactly that excuse is as unknown as the victor of our original game; yet, a part of me is sure that you might remember—but my doubts are also quite numerous. However, the excuse worked, and I was able to effectively escape the situation that caused me so much suffering. And, as I walked away, I vowed to myself that I shall never return; my heart was not able to take it. The friendship that burnished has been tarnished and dulled.

This was the moment of my ideation; I lost her, and yet... I still have not come to terms with it. In the resulting days the grief of my soul was at its strongest, and reasons as to why I did not triumph this woman floated perpetually in mirage. My thoughts, my dreams, my conscience plagued by the regret of my passiveness. For did I ever have a chance? Would I ever have been able to call her my love? Could there ever be a day where I am the one with my hand wrapped around her shoulders, my head snuggling next to hers as she reads aloud the newest book of her collection, lying on the arbour underneath her walnut tree? See her cheering for me in the stands as I goal on my opposing team? Embrace her as she congratulates me after the game? Kiss her goodbye before her return home? Or are these simply distant possibilities? She like me, or she like me not? Would I have been able to satisfy her desires? Please her and treat her in the way in which she deserved to be treated? For what did she see in him? Was it only a childhood friend? Was it only the friendship that defined her decision? For does he appreciate her intelligence? Her jauntiness? Do you even understand the words that she studies? Or do you simply see her superficial? For what about her can you appreciate?—Stop!

An admirable man. An honest man. An innocent man. A respectable man. A caring man. How pitiful have I become! This loss—this grief that I struggle so has pitted myself against the man whom I love. The man whom I used to call brother. For woe is me! A miserable fool! How dare I ask my own self "Why am I not with this woman?" Why would she ever want a boy like me? An idiot so envious of his friend; a dolt so jealous of her company. I am a friend. I am an acquaintance. Happyness, joy, jollity, gladness, other emotions of contentment—these should be the only dominating affections in which I busy myself. My two best friends are now one! As I see other, I shall see another; As I see another, I shall see other. I spent my time moping and groaning at my ineptitude, my whataboutisms. My happiness is gone—how pathetic! For how can this control me? How can I allow this to grip me with chains and pull me down? I have become the victim of my own creation. But how will I recover? How could I recover? For these last years of my life I have dedicated myself to occupying my time, separating myself from the source that troubled me. Ironically, I found myself using the very thing that reminds me of you: books. Still, I will never be as intelligent as you. I will be nothing more but a poor attempt to imitate you.

How did I find myself writing such a convoluted memoir? For what purpose would I deduce that requires such a personal account be written? I was reminded of you recently. More than reminded, I came in contact with you. As I was walking blindly onward the esplanade, I found myself along that same trail to that same walnut tree to the same them. Underneath the tree they sat, smiling to each other as I heard the innocent voice reading from, most certainly, new literature. You both looked so happy together. I was taken back to the first day I met you. My pause on the trail, my staring eyes, and your welcoming smile. Then, I was taken aback to the time I met you. The soccer game, the cleat punctures, and the apologetic color of your voice. For I was so happy. I was so happy with you both. I was able to bask and share the combined happiness of you both; yet, my bemoaning heart will no longer allow it. I long to once again laugh with you, smile with you, be with you. Maybe I wrote this convoluted memoir, this personal account, because it is cathartic in a way, a way that I am able to air the grievances that has afflicted me all these years—Even if you don't read this, they will—to share my experience and to help those who may feel the same way, for this is to my heart... an Ode to my Broken Heart...