WRITING

Claire's grandfather had always asked me, 'Why don't you write those stories?'

There may be something in his eyes that my normals ones couldn't see. He praised me for being imaginative and for being ever so lively every time I have another letter up in my sleeve. I'm like a magician pulling unexpected things from under my coat.

"Claire would love to hear your stories when the both of you get back home," he said.

So every afternoon before evening, I and Claire would sit by their house's porch and I would tell her stories. Her grandfather is right, Claire had always been fond of my stories. The feeling of levitation had been bestowed onto my grounded self every time I take a glance at her smiles, her bouncing attentive head, her leaning body, and her twitching arms upon excitement. She would love them and ask me more for tomorrow to which like a contract I abide by for sharing my stories to her means another day I get to see her smile.

Why did I become a writer then? She and her grandfather had me realized that I am good at it. I remembered the first days I wrote and everything looked like scribbles, scribbles much more unreadable than Claire's handwriting. While the stories were well-written in your head, transcribing them onto the paper felt a whole lot different. All of them tried exiting the portal all at once that's why I ended with patches and blotches, rather than a whole painting.

Those are weaknesses I accepted. There were days I would sneak at the darkest of the times onto their house. Claire might not know but the old man had been silently going out to their backyard at night and gaze blankly at the stars. The old man does permit me to disturb him though. He would even thank me for making him critique the stories I wrote, and oftentimes even if I went there empty-handed.

"There's a nearby school with a teacher specializing in theater," he said. "You can spend your high school days as a mentee and write your way to the real world, young one. Writing can give you a direction until you find what you truly love in your college years, before the real world that's what I'm saying. Or maybe this is for you and you just need time to realize it."

Those had been words that convinced me of following that path. I told that story to Claire and as you would know, another day of ecstasy had been gifted onto me by seeing her eyes smile. I could say she happier than I was back then.

Short stories after short stories and sunsets after sunsets, the days become fast. I was happy the old man isn't getting noticeably weaker and by talking to him, I am becoming more convinced of finding that teacher as my mentor. There was this thumping from my chest that needs to be released. It felt like a quest I must achieve.

Claire was indecisive which is why she opted just to follow me. While she doesn't know what she is yet to become, she told me that she'll accompany me on my journey and let the discovery happen during it. I always thought that It was beyond her when I asked her to be a part of the theater, but seeing her now had partially eased that sense of guilt for pushing her into something she never did think of. Who would've known she's great at dancing and acting.

We would attend rehearsals together, sing together, dance together, and play our roles well together. The spotlight onto us was a shining light from the heavens, granting the world only to us back then. And even when it is just her up on the stage, I in the audience, her glory shines like a bird with dazzling feathers.

Her feet stride more flowing than her usual football kicks. Her pirouette deceives the audience against her very capable kick. She ascends from a person not being seen by others, to a goddess worthy of a standing ovation.

But her feathers were plucked and her beak blunted. It was just half a year after enrollment. The sunset by the quayside I saw her slouched and head tucked in. She wore her white dress, short hair gliding with the wind. Her sobs were far louder than the crashing waves and shaking far seismic than the creaks of my footstep.

"I don't want to but I need to go," she said.

"You're getting good at acting, Claire. You even made me chase after you this far."

"I don't want to leave grandpa, and you, and this school."

"What are you even talking about?"

"My mom's friend came and offered to take care of me. She said she was looking for me. She lives far away. I don't understand how easy it is for Granpa to let me go."

I just sat close to her and offered my lap. Together we watched the sun become engulfed by the sea as our dangling feet were showered by the splashes of the waves. Some of it had hit my chest, I still remember my shirt drenched with droplets.

And from there the spotlight felt restrictive, it made me feel alone. It felt like I kept pushing my way out and yet that mere light had followed me wherever I go. I cannot move. I cannot see my way through. I am powerful yet it excludes me out from the world, and that made me felt even more powerless. Those shadows from my feet crept onto my ankles and the thinning light becomes silent. I was alone.

I waited for years and she didn't come back. While it felt awesome to have her grandfather listen to my stories, his eyes were different from yours.

Now she's back and I kept hearing the same thing from her. How can she blame me?

Have I lost something that made her push me for such? I have been writing and every event my characters experience and every pain they felt were all etched in my brain. Etched as if a knife engraved them for me. And every time a story decided that it is their time to cross the portal to the real world, a part of me screams. Do they even deserve to be written on paper? Or so much so to be recreated anew?

My theater has lost a lot of its actors.