The first time he saw her – two months and some days ago, he knew there was something special about his attraction to her, something about a guy’s heart skipping a beat, something that he had always dismissed as clichéd. But it didn’t end there; he had continued to think about her, about what it would be like to talk to her, to be her friend.

Every morning afterwards, he stayed by the balcony, waiting for her to walk past so that he would ogle her curves, his beloved curves. He wondered how he had caught himself in such web, pining for a girl whose name he didn’t even know, but he didn’t care because he seemed consoled and healed of the loneliness that had consumed him. If looking at her could heal him so much, what would it mean to hold her close, to have her breathe life into him, to taste of the living water in her mouth? But he was iffy about being ready for her, or maybe he was not good enough, not mature enough. Once he had gone to the mirror by his bed and fiddled with his beard, it was not long enough, not bushy enough but he hoped it would score him high, a hope that made him forget his usual fear, his thought that mature guys have spot on their face, pimples – and he had none, he wished he could conjure some up…

Today again, he stayed by the balcony and waited for her, when she came – if she came, he taught, he would walk up to her and ask her what her name was, what her phone number was and if they could be friends, then something more.

But he never dared talk to her. The moment he sighted her from afar, there was usually this beat on his chest, something like a pestle being pounded against the mortar. It usually killed his confidence. This is not my first time of asking someone out, he would think, why am I afraid? Or am I not a man? Yet, he never talked to her. He had forgotten that his last relationship, the one he had in high school, ended over three years ago. He would just watch her walk past, and then he would turn his head and look at her as she faded into the corner of the street and to the next day when he would wait again.
…hello, he rehearsed, I am Bosun, no, my name is Bosun, no. He taught of his pick up lines and reframed…standing before you is Bosun, three hundred level Mass Communication student who cannot ask a girl out, his instincts corrected him.

He played with the collar of his shirt and hoped it was okay – whether he could go meet her. Just then, he sighted her again, she appeared from afar, a place where her head became a silhouette that occasionally blocked the evening sun as she moved. His heart beat faster the nearer she came.

…standing before you is Bosun, he rehearsed again before remembering his taunting thought once more…three hundred level Mass Communication student who cannot ask a girl out, but even before he could call her, she had walked past him.

Another day gone, he would wait till tomorrow – or maybe forever.

I’m @me_ablad on twitter.


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