Stalked! (Conclusion)

By Jing Villamil

HER message must have gotten across to him who had watched, watched-over her for almost five years. He quieted for the next few months; military training perhaps? She did not really know if she should leap high, twirl a pirouette, scream shrilly, laugh crazily. Or cry for the loss of him. For the impossible possibility of the both of them. They never could get their acts together in symphony. Just in synchrony of “where you go I follow”. For, come to think of it, he was the most persistent of the “boys” in pursuit of her. And the most safe. If he had been braver, and dared to approach her, and stretched a hand to carry her books, even raised her red marching flag? Why, he would have been graced with the beginnings of a smile. He would have had better edge over the others. For she had been aware of him far longer than he knew. But, she would not pick him up and out of the crowd of admirers and invite him to “come, walk with me”. Definitely not, madir.

And in the presence of his absence, she was liberated from the arts, majoring in math.

During her post- graduate studies, his letters began to rain on her. From all over where trouble broke and brewed and boiled over, he would send cards. And pictures of a slim, self-confident soldier he had become, reaching out to her with a naughty dimply smile. And in-between cards of “Hi, remember me, your shadow, your ghost?” he would mail brochures of beautiful houses for two and a baby or two. He would write on a clipped note “please, choose our house and it is yours”. And, without fail, he would propose again and again “will you marry me, please?”

But, again – Why should she? How could she? – when he was a stranger looking-in, her shadow, her ghost?

She would store all cards, all brochures in a big box, where the soft tulle wraps of the roses from years ago were also laid. Closing it firmly with a tap, she would whisper “dear silly boy”.

When she was nearing thirty, she married her look-alike fellow professor who had also mastered math. She was afraid of laying to waste the best of her genes. On the first month after she gave birth to her first child, he would send his sisters to see if she were happy. (She was not! Too much of herself in her copycat. Too much counting of numbers and stuff. If not for the baby . . . But, of course, she would not tell the sisters that.) She would tell the sisters “we are happy – my copycat, ay!, my husband and I and the baby.”

His silence lasted longer this time. No letters, no cards, no brochures. Before he turned forty, and before he retired from the US Army, but still not married, he came home to where his heart had always been. He was not so fearful of her now; this time, he was more than a little brave.

He dropped-in in one of the schools she lectured in. He always knew where she was.

She froze as soon as she saw him. She thought: “Ah, here you are. After almost twenty-five years, I see you see me.” He turned around to watch her walking towards him and . . .

He held her shoulders, gazed into her eyes flowing with tears, then hugged her tight to his chest. She could hear his sobs from within. After the longest while, he let go of her. He took her hands to his lips. He pressed her palms like he did the first time when she was fifteen. Then he walked away fast, from there, from her.

Then he was gone; truly gone.

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