I’ve probably mentioned more than once that I’ve never kept a blog longer than a year, though not intentionally. I guess that’s the lifespan I’ve given it unconsciously, though coincidentally that’s the time most sites do some revamps, which alienates me most of the time.

I’d like to change that. And I guess 2012 is the perfect way to start. I’ll try and post on here regularly, which means I’m still keeping my blog, along with some changes — whether major or minor, I have yet to decide. (That includes a deliberation on my URL name, as well as the theme). That also leaves me to decide what I’m going to do with my recently-opened (but not-so regularly used) Wordpress. Not making any promises though. This is just part of the long process of me finding myself—including rediscovering my love for blogging. I just hope that I wouldn’t feel like updating my blog every now and then would feel like a chore.

For starters, here’s a story I came up with probably almost a month ago (and that I also posted on Facebook), which is also a product of a long-nursed writer’s block. Hooray, me. 

I take full credit for this one-shot.

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Stolen Glances in a Cafe

Sam Beltran

You sit across the other end of the room, unfazed and undisturbed by the trivial and mundane commotion occurring in the obscure cafe we chanced upon – the whirring of the coffee machines, the chatter of hipster-feeling high school kids, the business chatter of two suit-clad men, all simultaneously happening that the cumulative sound it made was too distracting, masking even my own thinking. Yet there you were, sitting, brooding and mysterious, slightly slumped on the sofa, reading a book. I squint my eyes to make out the title—“The Perks of Being a Wallflower”. Ironic, since I know you’re the furthest from being a wallflower.

How could you be one? You were captain of the basketball team, did part-time modelling, and as far as parties were concerned, you were always spotted dancing with the prettiest girls from school, as well as from other colleges.

It could have been the intensity of my stare, but you suddenly moved your head an inch up, and your eyes caught mine off guard. You scrunch your forehead, whether you were in deep thought trying to remember where you saw me from, or you were just weirded out by me, plain and simple. You could probably be thinking of the time you saw me and my pink hair waving out placards that read “OUST THE PRESIDENT!” during the last protest against the school board, or the time I entered your classroom by mistake, thinking it was my class since I’d been hurrying a few minutes before, or when I’d gone to my first party we both happened to be in and I was drunk as hell, and some guys had to escort me out so I could hurl my guts out elsewhere.

But could you have indeed, recognized me? The sudden ease in your expression confirms this, and you go back to your earlier state, focused and not minding a single soul, without so much as a nod back. I didn’t think small, hidden coffee shops were your thing, let alone reading. Who was I kidding? We didn’t have any common friends. We were from two different worlds. Then again, maybe—just maybe, it was this moment, both of us sitting across each other at two opposite ends of a tiny cafe that brought us together. Maybe we weren’t that different.

The realization made me so anxious and excited all the same as I reach down the table to gulp the remains of my already-cooled coffee, only for it to miss my mouth. Apparently I’d made such a huge deal out of it, as everyone in the room suddenly looked at me, including you. I let out an expletive. Not putting down your book, your eyes seemed to twinkle back at me as you stifle a laugh, and send a discreet smile back my way instead. The aroma of freshly roasted coffee beans and the cool sensation from the air conditioning take my nose by surprise as I inhale sharply, still trying to breathe regularly as the barista frantically tries to clean the spilled coffee on the floor, mumbling “Sorry, ma’am” all the while.

I look at you and for a second, it seems like you steal a glance my way as well. My heart skips a beat for a fraction of a second. Maybe you were able to see through me, beyond the pink hair and ear piercings. What seemed to be “attractive” about you, if you could call it that, that in this very moment, during the most unlikely of events, you surprised me. I was never one for stereotypes, and during that particular time, you seemed to agree. This isn’t the story about a womanizing jock and a weird, misunderstood freak; this was a story of just a boy and a girl, stealing glances at a cafe. And for once, I felt like I was some special person who’d seen through you, break down barriers, and you the same to me.

My heartbeat speeds up as I look at you even longer. Could you be thinking what I was thinking as well? Could we be sharing the same million thoughts that were running in my head the past hour or so? Could we, despite the million-and-one differences we had in the world, have actually made a connection in this hopeless place?

Your eyes catch mine for the nth time and I take view of your features. Your brown eyes tantalizing in the dim light. Your hand running through your messy dark hair. Your million-dollar dopey smirk. I couldn’t get myself to stop staring at you, so much that I didn’t see you put down your book after so many hours, get up from your seat, and march towards me with a look that seemed to say, “There you are. I’ve been waiting for you for so long.”

Your smirk turns into a grin as you leap closer to me by the millisecond. You give a wave that is eager, even almost compelling that I feel almost obliged to wave back. This is it. The moment we’ve both been waiting for. I felt the connection and you guessed it. I predicted the course of events I was sure to happen next: You’d say hi, do some small talk, sit beside me, talk about the book you were reading, decide that despite my looks I wasn’t any other girl you’ve met, and we’d embark on a whirlwind romance.

The little bell just above the entrance of the cafe gives out a small clink! as a fair-skinned waif-like brunette walks in hurriedly, and stops in her tracks just as you pass me by and join her on the way out. You link arms with her as she kisses you on the cheek. You never looked back.

Who was I kidding? We were from two different worlds.

I don’t believe in destiny.

Sue me. I’m not shoving it down anyone’s throats, but I just don’t. Destiny, according to the Merriam-Webster Dictionary, is a predetermined course of events often held to be an irresistible power or agency. To believe in destiny would be tantamount to just waiting aimlessly as a predetermined path unfolds in front of your very eyes.

If that was the case, then why are we still living? If that was the case, then what the hell are problems, conflicts, and decisions for if everything was meant to turn out a certain way in the end? Why else do we make choices and face their respective consequences if somehow, something is predetermined anyway?

Now fate, on the other hand, is a different thing. Fate is kind of like a rock that happens to appear on the metaphorical road you take through life, or the mysterious old lady who asks for help, then turns into a magical fairy if you show her your benevolent soul. Fate is the deck of cards life throws at you at any moment in your life, and it’s up to you how you would play them.

Fate could come at any point at all, like maybe, through a person you happen to meet who could possibly change your life. Fate could come and intervene by making both of you meet in the most mundane and least likely of all places— such as in a cafe, on the street, or maybe even in a review center. Then that’s when you make a choice: You can choose to let this person pass by and miss an opportunity of a lifetime, or you can choose to have this person for keeps.

We make the choices. We face their consequences. And that my friends, is not destiny. Because even if you want to say otherwise, no matter how much you want to believe that something can truly go the distance, when someone chooses to let go, you deal with it.

Sometimes, it all comes down to a choice, and not whatever is mapped out for you.

18 months later, we still:

• Have not celebrated a Valentine’s Day together.
• Have not thrown a birthday party for each other.
• Have not gone to a basketball game or to a concert with each other.
• Have not gone out to a conventional dinner date.
• Have not gone out on a date by car.
• Have not celebrated a monthsary/anniversary together exactly on the 25th. (Except for the one the night before Ondoy, but come on—Ondoy, really?)
• Have not done other traditional couple stuff I am too lazy to mention.

But we have the best we could possibly ever have— each other.

Sorry, totally cliche and cheesy, but after 18 months I think I somehow earn the right to be so. I love you Mark, happy 25.