Love Stories: Heartbroken

August 12, 2001. 8:32 pm.

Squaring may produce extraneous roots. Squaring may produce extraneous roots. Squaring may produce extraneous roots. Drumming my nails on the table, I sighed loudly. I’ve been reading the same line over and over again. Squaring may produce extraneous roots.

Sigh. “Guys really are such a major pain in the neck,” I muttered under my breath, angrily snapping the book shut. “`Pag ako na-cinco sa Math, I will never ever talk to a man again, much less look at one.”
I massaged my cramped legs, while smooth R&B music oozed out of the radio. Peeping outside the window, I watched as the shadows of the trees play hide-and-seek on the ground. Reminiscing.
It has been exactly three weeks since the last time Troy asked me out. Two weeks since he last called. Four days since he last texted.

I missed him.

Annoyed at myself for feeling that way over a mere member of the opposite sex, even more so for admitting it, I walked to my bed and lay face-down. Thinking. A minute passed. And another. And yet another, but I just stayed there, staring at the flowered print of my bedsheet until my eyesight blurred.

Ring, ring, ring.

I stood up and checked my cellphone for the caller id. My heart somersaulted. Speaking of the devil.

Troy? Bkt?
Options. Send. Message sending… Message sent.

For the first time that day I actually smiled. Fluffing up my pillows, I eagerly waited for his reply.

1 message received. Troy.

Lalang. namimish lng kta. msta ka na? msta lovelyf?

Options. Reply.
E2 namimiss k na rin. Hehe. A lil bit. Lovlyf? Zilch p rin eh, do u hav 2 remind me? Lol. Kaw?

“Well, at least he’s interested about my lovelife,” I mused. Good sign.

1 message received. Troy.
Awwww. kwawa k nman. zilch rin but may prospect. hehe

Hmmm. Prospect? “Ok, ok Joe, don’t get too excited,” I calmed myself. But somehow, it didn’t work. I was as giddy as a 7-year-old kid on the way to McDonald’s.

“Daya m. Uunahan m pako ha. Uyyyy cno naman kya un?” I texted back.

Trying to stifle my excitement, I counted all of the reasons why I couldn’t possibly be his “prospect”:

  1. when guys drop off hints like that, it always turns out to be another girl.
  2. whenever he sends me sweet messages I text back friendship quotes (for some idiotic reason which I cannot comprehend).
  3. he doesn’t like to hold my hand in public.
  4. he doesn’t text me that often.

1 message received. Troy.

“Oh my gawd, this is it,” I thought. My heart skipped a beat.

Taga-up dn sya. trina ang name. mghanap ka na dn kc so double date tyo. :slight_smile:

“Shit,” I cursed unconsciously. So much for being his prospect.

My heart felt like an elevator, sliding down into a bottomless pit. Falling. And falling. And falling. My ego was shattered into pieces, and he was jumping all over it, squishing each piece into even finer particles. It hurt. Although I was expecting that answer, it still hurts like hell. I burrowed underneath the covers, wishing I could stay in hibernation forever. Sniff. Eyes watering, I replied, “Really? kainggit k nman. good 4 u. hyaan m, pg meron na, bblitaan nlang kta. :)”

“Girl, there are lots of fish in the sea,” I consoled myself. “But I want that fish,” something inside me argued. Old insecurities took a vengeance. What went wrong? Is she prettier than I am? Smarter? Or maybe sweeter? Did he find me too outspoken? Too eager to please? Too aggressive perhaps? Sigh. But he held my hand all the time that we were in Rockwell, he even caressed it with his thumb. He forced me to look at him whenever I got incensed at his extreme teasing, pulling my chin to his direction whenever I refused to look at him. He even sent me a message which said “I love you,” but the weird thing is, he told me his cousin sent it not him. A friend told me that he just wanted to see my reaction. Hmmmm.

I walked to the balcony and lit a cigarette. Hell, why was I so affected? He isn’t even my type for christ sake’s. He, with his fancy-shmancy private school, his fancy-shmancy cellphone, his fancy-shmancy car, his fancy-shmancy mansion in his fancy-shmancy Ayala subdivision, and his other fancy-shmancy things.
My ex is a lot cuter than he is. He didn’t even pass the UPCAT and the ACET which totally disgusts me. And I droned on and on and on about his imperfections, all the while erasing all of his messages and his number from my mobile phone. That dumbass.

“Sour grapes, ” I chided myself.

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