He was nothing spectacular.
When he came, he was not perched on a white horse or donned in a silver armor. Unlike the movies, there was no string quartet or the soothing voice of a jazzy French singer. The moment I saw him was nothing in comparison to the numerous novels I've ardently pored on. There was no spark, no somersaulting heartbeats, no magnetic force instantly drawing me closer to him.
In fact, there was nothing at all.
When he came, he was walking, one hand in his pocket and the other on the strap of his backpack. He was wearing a collared shirt and a pair of jeans that were a bit too loose for him, and I couldn't help but notice that he was quite far from the latest fashion trends of colored chinos, bomber jackets and loafers. The endless chattering of students rushing to and fro accompanied the soundtrack playing in my head—a mix of indie music by the 'Naked and Famous.' The songs had nothing in relation to teenage love or the magic behind it; they just happened to be stuck in my head for the past few days now. His physique didn't quite match the striking features of characters I have fallen in love with. There were no runes etched on his sun-kissed skin or iridescent wings arching from his back. He was no handsome prince or a dauntless instructor or a commander of a powerful army. Rather, he was ordinary and a bit too ordinary, and when he came, fiction melted with reality, and it was too late when I realized my heart had flown away.
He was different—different from the limited number of boys that have managed to get away with my heart, different from all the ones I've chased because of their cosmic impact, witty remarks and boyishly charming looks, different from how I've always pictured the guy in bthis moment would be— and I've always had a taste for the different. The different has always intrigued me. It has always made me want to know more, to ask more because the world is overflowing with unanswered questions and teeming with unmarked 'fill-in-the-blanks'. And like Da Vinci and his 'Mona Lisa' and all the great artists and poets before me arrived with a masterpiece through a sudden spark of inspiration, the different always had a story for me, a story that was begging to be told.
So I gathered up my tools and painted a portrait of him, realizing he was outlined in black and white. His portrait was that of a simple one, with pure, hushed tones staining the rest of the canvas in light paintbrush strokes. But when I hung it on the whitewashed walls of my bedroom next to my line of paintings, it made no sense; moreover, it made no impression.
He doesn't draw attention, and maybe that's what I like about him. Because it allows me to look for him, to find him wandering in an ocean of warm bodies and giddy spirits and realizing that the search for him is all worth it because when I find him, our gazes meet, and in that split second before he looks away, I feel the butterflies in my stomach and the red on my cheeks and realize that all along it's what I've been wanting to feel.
And maybe ordinary was what I've been searching for all along; ordinary and different at the same time. Maybe ordinary would be the perfect fit for this jagged heart that's been broken one too many times because there's so much beauty in the ordinary, so much beauty in something that only a certain pair of eyes can see. So much beauty in something only a fickle, fragile heart can understand. So much beauty in a code only I could decipher. So much beauty in a nameless enigma that piqued my wandering interest.
There is just so much in the ordinary, and I cannot wait to unveil it.
There is so much in him that I have yet to know.
When he came, he was not perched on a white horse or donned in a silver armor. Unlike the movies, there was no string quartet or the soothing voice of a jazzy French singer. The moment I saw him was nothing in comparison to the numerous novels I've ardently pored on. There was no spark, no somersaulting heartbeats, no magnetic force instantly drawing me closer to him.
In fact, there was nothing at all.
When he came, he was walking, one hand in his pocket and the other on the strap of his backpack. He was wearing a collared shirt and a pair of jeans that were a bit too loose for him, and I couldn't help but notice that he was quite far from the latest fashion trends of colored chinos, bomber jackets and loafers. The endless chattering of students rushing to and fro accompanied the soundtrack playing in my head—a mix of indie music by the 'Naked and Famous.' The songs had nothing in relation to teenage love or the magic behind it; they just happened to be stuck in my head for the past few days now. His physique didn't quite match the striking features of characters I have fallen in love with. There were no runes etched on his sun-kissed skin or iridescent wings arching from his back. He was no handsome prince or a dauntless instructor or a commander of a powerful army. Rather, he was ordinary and a bit too ordinary, and when he came, fiction melted with reality, and it was too late when I realized my heart had flown away.
He was different—different from the limited number of boys that have managed to get away with my heart, different from all the ones I've chased because of their cosmic impact, witty remarks and boyishly charming looks, different from how I've always pictured the guy in bthis moment would be— and I've always had a taste for the different. The different has always intrigued me. It has always made me want to know more, to ask more because the world is overflowing with unanswered questions and teeming with unmarked 'fill-in-the-blanks'. And like Da Vinci and his 'Mona Lisa' and all the great artists and poets before me arrived with a masterpiece through a sudden spark of inspiration, the different always had a story for me, a story that was begging to be told.
So I gathered up my tools and painted a portrait of him, realizing he was outlined in black and white. His portrait was that of a simple one, with pure, hushed tones staining the rest of the canvas in light paintbrush strokes. But when I hung it on the whitewashed walls of my bedroom next to my line of paintings, it made no sense; moreover, it made no impression.
He doesn't draw attention, and maybe that's what I like about him. Because it allows me to look for him, to find him wandering in an ocean of warm bodies and giddy spirits and realizing that the search for him is all worth it because when I find him, our gazes meet, and in that split second before he looks away, I feel the butterflies in my stomach and the red on my cheeks and realize that all along it's what I've been wanting to feel.
And maybe ordinary was what I've been searching for all along; ordinary and different at the same time. Maybe ordinary would be the perfect fit for this jagged heart that's been broken one too many times because there's so much beauty in the ordinary, so much beauty in something that only a certain pair of eyes can see. So much beauty in something only a fickle, fragile heart can understand. So much beauty in a code only I could decipher. So much beauty in a nameless enigma that piqued my wandering interest.
There is just so much in the ordinary, and I cannot wait to unveil it.
There is so much in him that I have yet to know.
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