It’s 4:00 AM. I wish he knew what I was feeling an hour ago. The rain was pouring so hard and the streets were dark just as I was about to go home after an argument. I know Mama is waiting for me to go home, so as my brother who was still awake at that very late hour because I asked him to. I was in the stage of i-don’t-know-what-to-do and there’s this still small voice that prompts me that the right thing to do at that moment is to go home.
I have always been doing that sweet escape since my parents gave me independence. Yes, they trust me a lot and I never wanted to break it as much as I can. There came instances that I am trying to hide. But then I know that no matter how I try, mothers have that instinct whether what you are saying is true or not. Gladly, no deep arguments come because just as I said, they trust me.
I am trying my best to be a good girlfriend and a wife. Lately however, I noticed that I have been giving much of my time to him than to my siblings, my mother, my family. I never regret any, because how I spend my time is a decision of my own. Yet, as everyone thinks that I am at a marrying stage, I feel that my little brothers and sisters are growing and my parents grow old too. I am at the stage when I feel I am now a woman. I feel like I am not fitted to wear baby pink anymore. But emotionally, I still have that childhood longings that I wanted to feel like being the youngest. I love to be called a baby. But then I know time gets tough, and my years are passing too.
I tried to bake. Previous cakes were perfect, but the cake I made yesterday was a disaster. So I had to make buy another set of icing ingredients just to make my man happy. I hope he was. I think he was. Sometimes, my guy is queer. He never says I baked the best cake, but no matter how disastrous my cake was, he eats. He eats happily. I hope that one day, aside from seeing him eating my cake masterpiece, I wish I can also hear him say some words about the taste. I wish he would someday ask, how was my baking? How did I bake? Just as when he asked me how did I got home? Was a safe? How was my sleep? Was I happy? Was he proud of me that I learned how to bake through self-help? I don’t think so.
My hand was aching a bit that night. My arm muscles maybe. But I chose to keep it. Coz I never wanted him to worry. That night, while massaging my right arm, I feel cared. I told myself, I have someone to take care of me. I am loved. That night for me was love, even if he insists his own thinking. That was love because I didn’t care going home at 3:00 AM alone. That was love because it was my own decision to hide where I was. That was love, because I feel like I’m in heaven with his arm as my pillow. That was love because I never cared how I look in front of him. That was love, because I let no one own me except him. I wish to hear “I love you” after that. Still, I believe that it was love, because I loved him.
Everything went so smooth and happy until a little argument moved a tear inside. He never says, but his face told me some things. Was I enough? Were my efforts not enough to let him stare at me like that? His words were round. Harsh and can hurt. Was that my fault to get so damn sleepy that I wanted to hurry home? Was I bad to walk away rather than argue on a cold rainy street? Do I deserve to feel down when all I can think that hour was my brother and Mama waiting for me to go home safe?
I hope he understands that I am risking my life just for him and there’s no reason for me to find another. No one has accepted me this way as much as he did because I did not permit anyone to accept me except him. I love him but why does his harsh voice makes me weak? I am still fragile. I cry. Whenever I get scolded by some petty little things, all I do is to cry inside and sleep. I need rest. And in the morning when I finally wake up, I will finally feel appreciated and be more loved.
I still have that hope. This is Love.