Almost

You and I were asymptotes—almost crossing. Almost intersecting. Almost meeting. Almost becoming friends. Almost talking. But we never did.

But one day, those “almost’s” became “did’s.” We did cross paths. Did become friends. Did talk.

I became cautious and wary of you walking into my life because I knew we had never met; I was always remembering you in the back of my mind. You were the constant companion of my first love, my one-time confidant when I liked someone stupidly. You were almost always there for me, but you would get away. You would leave, God knows why.

And then you stayed. You introduced me to a TV show, I introduced you to tea concoctions. It wasn’t hard to relate because you were genuinely kind and we shared this common ground of friends and almost lovers. We belonged to one atmosphere, which made it easier for us to establish a friendship.

It always felt easy to talk to you because I never met you; I was only getting to know you over and over again. I was remembering if you were the same person who, knowing that I had made the—so far—biggest mistake of my life, sent a direct message to me on Twitter to make sure I was okay during my darkest days. I was recalling if you were the same human being who asked me to buy a toy from McDonald’s for his nephew, if you were the almost friend who knew most of my “almost’s” in life.

And yes, you were still that person. But then you became so much more.

There came a time when I almost liked you, and my high school best friend was a witness to that. She told me: “I’m warning you. If your first love’s messy, this one’s messier. Look at the paths you two have gone through. Look at the people you loved. Look at him—he would always almost happen to you. Now he is. But what if one day he stops happening? What if life takes him away?” I tried to listen. I almost wanted to never reply to you anymore, almost wanted to stop talking to you, almost wanted to trash those feelings because I found them stupid.

I almost forgot about the shows, songs, and movies we talked about. The “20 questions” games we never finished. The feeling that at the end of the day, you’d always be the one I wanted to talk to about the food my classmates and I cooked, the jokes my teacher cracked, the books I read, the people I grew fond of, the true friends I made during RSPC.

I almost left you the way my first love trashed me, but I chose not to.

That’s the thing about pain: It may hurt partly because we’re there to experience the aftermath of our decisions and actions, but it does cause a pang in our chest because we choose to feel it. We choose to get hurt along with the choice of risking our heart to love.

I chose you to stay. I chose to like you. I chose you—that’s the bottom line.

You’d almost break my heart every time we wanted to meet up but never did. But then we would.

I almost didn’t feel content during my birthday. I almost believed that my friends deceived me that you’d be there to greet me face to face. But then you actually came.

You, of all people whom I can meet in this world, became mine to be the turner of my “almost’s” into affirmations. You became the “yes” to my “maybe,” the certainty to my doubts. And now we’re friends. Are we almost there? If we are, you ought to know what happens to us and the word “almost”—they can become a resounding “yes.”

Oh, well. Let’s cross the bridge when we’re almost there.

Chlarine M. Gianan, 16, studies at St. Scholastica’s College-Westgrove.