Le-an Lai Lacaba | What's your story?

The fed-up hopeless romantic’s letter

Dear boyfriend,

You know how I feel about you.

You know how my eyes sparkle when I see you. You know how I can’t help but smile when you stare at me. You know how I get dizzy when you kiss me. You know how weak I get when you hug me. You know how I feel giddy every time you tell me you love me, and in return I can’t help but tell you how much I love you back. You know how I can’t help but melt whenever you’re around, even though I’m mad at you. How I can’t help but fall in love with you every moment. You know that I’d do anything you want in a heartbeat, no matter what the consequences would be.

Even when I don’t want to do it, I do it anyway because I like seeing that smile on your face. God knows how I want you to always smile. And yet, all I’m asking from you is time to be with you, and you always have reasons not to do so. I have to demand it, like I’m at the lowest of your priorities. You like to take advantage of how I feel for you, in more ways than one. You make me chase you, then you make me feel like you were the one who was doing the chasing. You rarely do anything for me anymore, aside from loving me the way you do. If you still love me that is.

Someday you’re going to miss how one look from you and you’d see me practicality floating for you. Someday I’d float for someone else,someone who isn’t you. Someone who would REALLY drop everything for me. Not just dropping because he can, but because he has to. Because he wants to be near my side the moment I ask for it. And when that time comes, I won’t even remember what it was like to be in love with you. Please don’t wait for the day when our forever becomes a never.

I’ve never been this demanding; so I hope you think this through.

Always remember, I love you. But enough is enough.

Girlfriend. <3

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There’s a Filipino quote, “Pag ang tanga nauntog, lagot ka.” (When someone stupid awakens from their stupidity, watch out)

Kind of fiction. Written by me, maybe for someone. In my 3-year long relationship, some days are better than others.

Twelve in the morning

Jake

Twelve in the morning and I was thinking about her.

Again.

If my brothers knew about this, I was going to get a real butt kicking for thinking about a girl.

But how couldn’t I?

She had the smallest hands a sixteen year old could have, so fragile yet coarse. She has the same hands with my mom after she comes home from the restaurant, but smaller. When I kissed her hand, it was like nothing in the world made sense. I didn’t know how I lived without kissing her hand, a small part of her.

She had cheeks that would turn pink whenever I catch her looking from the other side of the classroom, when everybody should be reading. She had cheeks that would turn pink when I called her name. She had cute cheeks.

And her smell. She always smelled like a flower garden, the way they do when you just bought them from the flower shop. Whenever she passed by me in the bus, or decided to sit beside me, all I’d do was smell her hair. She made me feel like I was floating, just by her smell.

Twelve in the morning and I was thinking about her.

And I knew I was in love.

Hannah

Twelve in the morning and I was thinking about him.

Again.

My dad would get mad at me for thinking about boys when I was supposed to study for Honors Class.

But how couldn’t I?

He had this smile that would make butterflies feel like eagles in my tummy. He had a pink upper lip, and a brown lower one. And when he kisses my hand, he closes his eyes, like he could never get enough of kissing my hand so he has to concentrate on it.

He has a way when he reads, the way his eyes never seem to leave the page unless he has to turn it. When he reads it’s like he’s melting into the book, but only looks my way when I stare too much. But then I’d notice his eyes, how it softens when he looks at me.

And his voice. Whenever he talks to me it’s like he’s singing to me, and when he sings to me it’s like my ears were made to just listen to him. He speaks from his diaphragm, and he sounds strange when he has a cold. But he makes me melt with his voice, like a fire that’s never dangerous to touch.

Twelve in the morning and I was thinking about him.

And I knew I was in love.

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So, I submitted this to a competition, didn’t get in, so I’m letting YOU guys read it! A writer needs feedback after all.

The dark subconscious

I rarely go to this part of my subconscious.

Mostly because people won’t understand. Heck, I don’t understand it.

People always said that writers went to places where they’d weave their stories from. Beautiful creative places where they could make a hit story with just one wave of their hand.

J. M. Barrie. got Neverland.

I got darkness.

I usually get myself busy so I don’t have to travel to the darkest place of my mind. I read, or study, or do chores-anything to take myself away from this place. I surround myself with people. But when I’ve been stuck in a hospital for five days, it does things to me. It takes me there.

Then the bad thoughts come.

I get suicidal thoughts. Lots of them. Sometimes I’d hold my breath just to see if I could die. I don’t. I don’t usually know why I want to die. I just know I’m not scared of death. I just want to end everything. To end trying to be better when this is all I’ve got. To end trying to please people when I really just want to be myself. To end being trapped in a world where everything was messed up, and everywhere you went there was always more cons than pros. To end being a burden to almost everyone. To end everything. Yeah, that sounds nice.

I slowly get insecure, thinking about what a bad writer I am and how I’d never get famous. How I’d die because I got sick all the time. How I’d never reach my dreams, how everyone secretly hated my writing. I get jealous of younger writers getting their work recognised without even trying so hard, while here I am looking for publishers and agents and people who’d get my work. Everything I’ve achieved has been done with me trying so hard. Nothing ever comes easy for me.

I sometimes remember the times when I got bullied. They’d say bad things about me, and it was easier not to care. But when you bully yourself, you slowly eat yourself inside out. You see all the things wrong about you because you know yourself more than anyone else.

I don’t even know why I’m writing this, but I needed to get this out. To get rid of these terrible thoughts that hinder me from finishing my book, from emailing publishers and promoters, hindering me from reaching my dreams. I do want to get there. I do. But I want to do it my way, because I’m too stubborn. Sometimes I just want to do away, anywhere. Just to see if I could do things on my own. Everyone says I should profit from my writing, but I don’t want that. I write for the sake of writing.

I would cry silently, something I’ve mastered through the years. I cry, making sure I feel every aching pain. I let it out, because when I don’t I hyperventilate. I have the need to talk to someone, but I don’t know who to trust. I’m just afraid that everything will backfire.

This usually comes when something triggers a part of my subconscious that I’ve long decided to keep hidden. Or when I get rejected. Or when I remember something that keeps on happening to me. I hope I don’t scare you all, but I just wanted you to see another side of me. Another side of this struggling writer.

That people aren’t always who they seem to be.

The one who was always left

They leave.

They always do.

Whether they’d leave tomorrow or the next day, they leave. No one cares enough about me more than I do. Heck, I sometimes want to leave myself if I could. I always roam around life, with a lot of masks, a lot of faces. Sometimes I look in the mirror and I don’t even recognise myself. They all say I’m afraid of commitment. But I’m really not.

I’m just afraid of being left behind.

Sometimes they have a reason why they do it. They make up stories how we could never work out, or that they found someone else. They’s be sweaty and fidgety when they tell me, trying to tell me that they had a great time. They’d try to make me feel better, telling me how beautiful my hair is, or how smart I am.

The worst are those who don’t explain. Everything is happy one day, and then suddenly they don’t have the balls to tell you it’s over. You just stare at your phone whole day, wishing it would come alive all of the sudden. You throw your phone across the room when it’s a spam text, or you don’t answer your mother’s calls because he might call.

But in the end you know, all of them will leave.

Until he came along.

At first I never wanted to believe he existed. But the more I pushed him away, the more he wanted to be with me. He made me believe in fairytales, the once I puked over when I was a little kid. There was something different about him, they way he said my name, they way he held my hand, the way he kissed me. I found myself getting annoyed of his texts, and he texted me all the time.

“Karen.”

He’d text.

“I’m outside your window. Open up.”

But I don’t. I don’t let anyone in anymore.

He’d just wait outside my window, sometimes all through the night. Then I’d hear him talking to his mom, making him go home. He’d always leave a rose on the window sill, and it always smells better in the morning.

But one day, the roses stopped.

The texts stopped.

And when I was yearning for him for some reason, I found myself sitting in front of a gravestone.

Left alone, once again.

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Fiction, originally written by yours truly.

My chocolate

I was thinking about him again.

I knew I really shouldn’t, especially since he loved to tease me that he can’t fall asleep with me thinking of him all night.

But something about him, I don’t know what, drives me crazier than chocolate. And that’s saying something. I love chocolate; dark, white, melted or frozen, but he’s..more.

Like when he holds my hand, sweaty and all, I sometimes forget which was mine and which was his. Like Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks in Sleepless in Seattle. I don’t know why I held the hands of other guys before when he made me feel like this.

And when he met my parents, oh gosh, I thought I was going to die. My dad kept asking where his parents worked, and I knew that he was poor. But I smiled when he stood up in the middle of dinner when dad asked again.

“With all due respect sir, I know my family is poor. But we work hard for what we have, and that’s how we like things. Grime and all. My father is a construction worker, my mother a maid. But I’d never exchange them for anyone.”

He sat back down, trying to keep his cool. But I was the only one who saw his shaking hands. By the end of the night, my dad patted his back and told him that he’d love to see him more often.

I groan as I turn around and face my pillow, trying to hide my squeal. When he was leaving that night I walked him out like a proper lady, and leaned it to kiss his cheek. But at the same time he was leaning to kiss my other cheek, and we ended up kissing. Kissing.

I knew my mom was peeking, especially when I heard her squeal, but I was already a goner. He smiled in surprise, and kissed my forehead after. He left sparks that made my tummy feel so queasy that I couldn’t sleep that night, and the next morning he complained about not getting enough sleep cause I was thinking of him.

But deep inside I knew, he was thinking about me too.

I bit my lip to hold back a laugh when I saw my phone lighting up, his shocked face on the wallpaper. He complained all day about the flash on my camera being in the way of his eyesight all day, but he let me kiss his eyes in the end anyway.

“Hello?” I whispered. I knew I would be in so much trouble if my parents knew I was still up this late, but I couldn’t help it, he was addictive.

“You’re thinking about me again.” He says, his voice having that hint of smile that made me feel all giddy inside.

“You’re hard not to think of.”

I began to have these sensations all of the sudden, the same ones whenever he was near. It left me feeling like I had the best chocolate in the world.

“Go to sleep already.” He tried to say with a serious tone, but came out with a chuckle.

“But how?”

“I’d give you chocolate tomorrow. A whole bag of them.”

“Okay goodnight!”

I turned off my phone and closed my eyes tight, trying to fall asleep. Maybe I still loved chocolate more than him after all.

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Fiction, written by me and nobody else but me. <3

(Plagiarise this and you’ll be digging your own grave. [dun.dun.duuuuuun])
This post only made me crave for chocolates, which I couldn’t UNFORTUNATELY have because I have asthma. Huff.

#AsthmaJokes

My heart beats a little more faster, and my hands get sweaty. I feel like all the breath from me is sucked out, leaving me breathless.

And it’s not because of a guy.

Literally though, it is hard to breathe. I’m currently at the hospital, an IV stuck to my hand, a nebulizer to my right, and shaking hands. But I like to find the fun in all of this, especially since I’ve been in the hospital more than my age(I’m 18!). Yesterday when I decided to get admitted, my mom and I laughed because we knew the drill too well. We knew what to bring, what to prepare, and my mom teased me when I didn’t cry when they inserted the IV.

Although asthma is as serious as it gets, I know because I had them since I was a baby, I can’t let it bring me down. So when I woke up I began searching for asthma jokes, just to divert myself from my palpitations and my headache from my sinusitis(did I mention I had that too?). So here I present, the best asthma jokes I could ever find on the internet.

I’m adding pictures of how I look like. Like I said in my status in Facebook, you’d never know I’m sick unless you hear me cough like a maniac!

And let’s end this, with a picture of the two crazy siblings:

Why write?

Write a hundred books. Make love with a thousand words. Touch millions of lives.

“And the Nobel Prize Award for Literature goes to, Le-an Lai Lacaba!”

Everyone rises up, their shiny gowns reflect on the spotlight that has been focused on me. After 50 years of being a writer, at long last I’m finally here; the first Filipino to receive this award. I rise up, my limber 60 year old bones are now shaking, but the smile on my face is still plastered on tight. I look at my husband and I squeeze his hand as I am ushered up the stage. And to think, 50 years ago I was a sixth grade elementary girl who started making stories in her diary. And now I’m here, in front of everyone who have read all of my works, and who have helped me up when I was down.

Crush-inspired stories. A small princess diary. Teacher issues.

“Le-an! Are you not listening?”

In that moment I look up at my teacher who looked angry. Oh wait, she is. I slowly sneak my diary in my bag, but my teacher catches sight of it.

“What is that?” She demands.

“It’s her diary ma’am where she writes stories.” My best friend quips.

I look at her angrily, the way she betrayed me like I was nothing to her.

“Let me see that.”

My heart leaps into my throat. I shakily give my diary to her, knowing fully that I wrote bad things about her inside. She takes it and walks to her desk, keeping the diary in her drawer. I looked down at my feet, feeling ashamed. It’s true that I wasn’t listening to her, but it was only because I got inspired on writing. Who am I to resist the calling of making a novel about me and my crush? This reminds me, he really looks cute today. Ugh, my diary! >.<

It was graduation day when she gave my diary back to me, and I have given up writing since that time. I felt so ashamed at what she did to me, doing it in front of class and everything.

“Ms. Lacaba, here you go. You’re a good writer for someone who’s eleven years old. But next time don’t make me the villain in your stories okay?”

I didn’t know what to do in that moment, so I just smiled and took the diary into my hands. Little did I know that my teacher would become a headmaster at a school in Thailand six years later. So maybe that was a sign.

Bullied little girl. A “class diary”. More crushes that left me crushed.

Everything is such a daze. No one wants me to be a part of their group, and I stopped hanging out with my best friend’s barkada because I was treated as an outcast. I hear them calling me names, talking about me behind my back. I don’t even know what I did. And so I write here in the corner, thinking of reasons why no one liked me. I write stories and poems about how it would be like to have real friends.

For a whole year I try impressing them, but the most hurtful moment that showed how much they despised me was when my teacher made a mistake in announcing that I was in last rank. They all cheered or something. Then when my teacher took back his words and said it was their friend in last rank, it was like they hated me more. I didn’t know how to deal with these people. High school sucks.

In sophomore year I began writing a novel in my diary again. At least I have friends now, with whom I show my stories to. But they weren’t only interested in my stories that were written at the back of my diary. They also wanted to read my actual diary. It was no big deal for me. Everyone knew who my crush was, even my own crush. So I let them be, I let them read my deepest secrets. I don’t care because maybe this way I would have more friends. Would you be my friend?

My crushes are somewhat cute. But every writer needs a muse right? In my case an escort. So I accept every guy whom my heart beats for. I know I sound like I easily like guys, but I have standards. Sometimes. Anyways, there is this one crush of mine whom I’ve been crushing for most of my high school life. But he became a bit of a jerk ever since he knew I liked him. He was kind of my friend during my “bullied” days, but now he just is a snob. I push myself into crying at times, just so I could write something about pain and suffering.

An unexpected victory. Finding out my weakness. More ideas to write.

My hands are shaking and sweaty. My face is hidden from sight. My constant mantra is “Please let me win. Please let me win.” My arm is on a chair and my head is rested it as if I was sleeping. They’re announcing the winners of the DSPC Feature Writing contest, and I feel so numb.

“In seventh place, in sixth place, in fifth place, in fourth place.”

My name hasn’t been called and they’re already in the top three. My heart is beating wildly. All my schoolmates have won a place for the regional competition, and my category just had to be the last one to announce. I keep muttering my mantra, as my friends pat my back. This is it. There’s no way I’d get into the top three. I look up just as the emcee announced the first place.

“In first place, Le-an Lai Lacaba of STCDCFI!”

OMG. Was that my name? The next thing I knew I was being pushed unto the little stage with my schoolmates jumping around. Next to me were six other winners, and I was standing in first place. This is it. This is my calling.

Oh no. They want me to write about the RSPC Pageant last night. I don’t know anything about pageants! I did attend it because I was required to, but I never thought they’d choose this for a topic! My head is swirling with so many things and ideas that I couldn’t put anything on the paper. The next thing I knew time was almost up and I had to hurry up. I wrote what I could, hoping for the best. During the awarding day, I knew I wouldn’t get a place. And I didn’t. I learned that my weakness was writing live performances or anything that I couldn’t make up. So I learned from that.

They say it doesn’t count on how high your position is, what counts is how many times you lift yourself up after you fall. So as I tried to recover from the RSPC fiasco, I picked up the pieces. I wrote about the little things in life, I wrote poems and short stories and tried to make a novel. I never wanted to stop writing, in hopes that someday I’d be one of the best. I’m going to get there someday, somehow.

A new school. Same type of “friends”. Different inspiration.

Entering college was just like entering high school all over again. I had no friends because it was like I was absent during the day that they all became friends. Although there wasn’t any bullying anymore, I still felt alone, tagging along from one barkada to another. I never really got attached to anyone. And so my “loner” instincts kicked in, and I found myself writing in the library, during class at times, and at home. I just wrote whenever I felt like it. I never felt like I belonged to anything anyways. So I belonged to myself.

During those loner times, there was someone who inspired me. He’s my current boy friend now and my best friend at that time. After a long time, I had an escort for my novels. I began to write love stories again, and the problem of not being close friends with anyone faded in the background. I began to take what I could take, and just let the good times roll. I tried walking on my baby feet as I staggered to the world of college life, and I’m still staggering every time I stand after I fall.

A new opportunity. Facing my fear. It was in the genes after all.

When my mom started to write for a magazine, I was ecstatic. She wrote beautifully, and her words were carefully chosen. I was excited whenever I saw the latest issue of the magazine, and planned to write for the magazine someday. Little did I know that it would soon come true. I got really excited was when she appointed me to cover national star’s concert. I looked back on the RSPC competition, and I challenged myself into writing something that wasn’t fiction. And in the end, I felt really good about myself because I impressed my mom.

A few months after that, I was called into a meeting for the magazine. Turns out, they were planning on making a junior writers team, and I was appointed leader! I knew there were responsibilities and tasks, but I was up for the job. My bucket list of working for a magazine was ticked off as I faced a new challenge.

And as I write this essay at twelve in the morning, I smile to myself as I look back at all the things I’ve gone through. I never realized how much I pushed myself to get back on the horse. I realize now that the best way to achieve anything is not to mope around and do nothing while you’re lonely. My motto is: when lonely, write! The best things in life come unexpectedly, and you better be ready with a pen and paper.

Almost one year later. A published book. Book number two on the way.

I’m finally here. After all the grueling and tiresome nights. After reading and editing till I was sick of it. After printing the copies to read it again. I’m finally published.

I have stumbled, and fallen. But I always knew that I was meant for this, I knew I had to endure them all.

After surviving the world’s biggest storm, I have stood up, dusted off the dirt, and wrote. I have written till I couldn’t, I have written till I was worn out. And now I’m done, my work is out there. With my blog and book in hand, I feel taller, though I’m only five feet tall (since I was 15).

Everything’s the same, yet a lot has changed. I still have the same escort, the same one who got me really started. One more year and I finish college, then it’s off to the real world. My younger siblings are now taller than I am, but I still get to boss them around. I am rarely lonely, I have my characters with me, just bursting to get out.

And now I have a new motto, one I will surely live by till the day I die. Write till your heart runs out of ink.

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The first part was written almost a year ago. I’m proud to have come this far, to be where I am today. Tomorrow is still another world to tackle, but at least I lived today.

Less than three is now available on Kindle! http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00IAJURRO

And the 14 ebook giveaway expires tomorrow! Enter here! http://www.rafflecopter.com/rafl/share-code/NGY1MzE1MGJiYzgxNWZhMGExMWZkMWFmMjdlOGFkOjA=/

Romana Angeles Lacaba

My mother.

Eighteen years ago, I was just a little baby the size of one litre of coke(i’m not kidding). I was a first born to my mom and dad, a first grandchild too. One day, my grandmother looked at me and said, “That baby looks terrible!”

My mom looked at her straight in the eye and said, “However insults my daughter will have to go through me!”

I always laughed at the story, knowing how protective my mother was from the very start. She’d always try to help me with my bullies, although as I grew up I didn’t tell her about them, ashamed of being a tattletale. She always gave me warnings about what to expect from the world, and if she could stretch her arms around us four, she’d likely do so to protect us.

My mother.

She raised four kids with my dad miles away on a boat, trying to work a better job than he could find if he was in the country. He would come home every four months, stayed for two, then left again. Though he did lend a hand or two in raising us, especially financially, my mom is my greatest hero.

My mother.

As the eldest, I was always mom’s right hand. I’d be the one she’d count on for errands and such, doing what I could to help. Though sometimes I’ve failed, I always try to do better the next time. I was naturally a perfectionist, trying to impress my mom by doing well in school. She never fails to show how proud she is of me, from buying me a beautiful dress when I got into the Honor Roll, to giving me a huge dictionary when I decided to be a writer. She always did her best for us, so I always tried to do my best for her.

My mother.

Soon enough, I got a lot of traits from her. She’s a writer herself, and I was always in awe with what she could conjure. As an English teacher and taking Masters in English back in her twenties, she was someone who was harnessed with words and developed her way of thinking. She also has this presence that I’m slowly following. Whenever she goes into a room, people always notice her, always in a good way. She had a way on how she carried herself, and I always wanted to do what she did.

We have the same taste with music, movies and ultimately celebrity crushes. Both of us could easily get what the other would think when a song from Michael Buble is being played, or when the movie “The Notebook” is on. We’re both sappy romantics in the end, crying with the characters of the movie.

My mother.

She’s always there to motivate the four of us. From my writing, to my brother’s musical inclinations, to my middle sister’s speaking talents and to my youngest sister’s dancing. She’s always flexible, always having a piece an advice for us to work on and improve on. She’s a writer, a singer, a speaker and a dancer after all. Where else would we get our talents?

My mother.

On her birthday I don’t have much to give, but this blog post dedicated to her. I have a lot more to say, but these are the important parts. She’s someone who showed me to stand up for myself and to believe in myself. She’s someone who wordlessly smiles at me and I’d feel it, I’d feel that she’s proud of me and loves me unconditionally.

Mom,

You’re the best, and always will be. Happy birthday!
Words would never be enough to describe how thankful I am to have you.

I love you,
Ate Yani.

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Who else would I name as the editor of my book?

Less Than Three Valentine Giveaway!

If you don’t know yet, my book, Less Than Three has been out since last Friday, and I decided to do a giveaway for Valentine’s Day, the very reason that I made myself publish the book right away.

Let me first introduce you to my book formally and with more detail.

Less than three is filled up by original short stories with less than three thousand words. I started weaving the book together last October 2013, but I’ve started writing since 2006. Most of the stories were influenced by the people around me, from the stories that I got inspired with just by observing other people’s lives (stalkerish? maybe). They’re heartwarming stories with a twist from reality, hoping to tug a few heartstrings and have you reaching for your tissue box for a good cry.

Stories included in this book are:

Walkie-talkie (2, 503 words)

The necklace (1,775 words)

Confessions of a University Scholar (1,716 words)

That should be me (708 words)

11:11 (1,514 words)

His morning voice (541 words)

Courting my soulmate (2,859 words)

Mr. Fluffy (894 words)

Apartment 104 (1,469 words)

Futile Love (1,169 words)

My little penguin (783 words)

Wasted (1,003 words)

Mrs. Superman (1,127 words)

Nauseated but jealous (1290 words)

Flying Kisses (735 words)

Candle lit storm (1,444 words)

Seeing trees (787 words)

Old conversations (852 words)

First Kisses (646 words)

My cup of Joe (900 words)

That little stick (1,569 words)

What once was (686 words)

What happens after goodbye (873 words)

Indelibly (419 words)

Exhaustingly worth it (758 words)

Eternally yours (1,082 words)

The last dance (1,214 words)

Mad (843 words)

The end (722 words)

Though most of these stories may seem familiar to my ever supportive readers, trust that I have revised and edited them over and over again. I may or may not have added a few scenes, just for delight.

And now I am giving away 14 ebooks, each winner chosen randomly. Winners will receive the PDF file of my book through email, with a signed message if they please. (Please wait for Rafflecopter to load)

a Rafflecopter giveaway

To buy the book, find the links here:

Paperback-at 14%(+1=15%) (just because it’s love month) discount :http://www.lulu.com/shop/le-an-lai-lacaba/less-than-three/paperback/product-21435906.html;jsessionid=B57CE689E5023D4A8D7E27605DB455A0

Kindle-http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00IAJURRO

The muse and the device

The constant clacking was my symphony, the occasional bing! was my song. I weaved lives in front of me with meticulous nature, making sure that each was made with a touch of reality. My brows were furrowed together as my heart constantly kept me alive, although my perseverance was dying. As I ripped out another paper and tore it to pieces, I bang my head on the table, careful not to damage my device. I groan, trying to paint the things I wanted to see.

“You can do this Darlene. If anyone could do it, it would be you.”

I whispered to myself, echoing the same words he spoke just hours ago. I began playing with my nails, picking at the easily rubbed off nail polish. My head was still stuck on the table, mulling over falling asleep here or hoping off to bed. It was another hopeless case, another crumpled paper.

I desperately needed something new to see before me, another place and time, with new characters for me to love. I groaned again as I decided to do the latter, of jumping off to my bed onto sleep slumber. Just then my phone vibrated, indicating that some other monster was awake at this ungodly hour. My eye bags have already reached to level three, my hair in dire need of a bath.

“Hello?” I sleepily said, my left eye barely seeing the screen.

“You have the phone upside down again.”

I fumbled with my phone, shocked that a voice echoed in my yawning mouth.

“Hello?” I repeated, hoping I got the phone in the right position this time.

“You’re giving up again aren’t you?” He asked pointedly.

“Yes. No. Maybe. Tomorrow again perhaps.”

I fluffed my pillow, as he began to rant off about how I always put things off when he knows I could do it now. I kept nodding though I knew he couldn’t see me, then mumbling an “uhuh” and “mhm” now and then.

“You’re already sleeping on me. How do you suppose you would finish your work if you keep dozing off the moment you run out of ideas?”

“I’m almost there. Just a little patience. I am just short of a few words before I’m finished.”

“Yeah. Finished. With chapter ONE.”

I buried myself into the pillow, screaming my frustrations out.

“Why do you keep annoying me? If I don’t want to write, you can’t force me. I give up.”

I turned off my phone, slowly feeling light as a feather. I’m going to stop writing. It’s as easy as that. Just as I was dreaming of guys who didn’t bug me about writing, my door slowly opened, making that awful creaking sound.

There was only one person besides my mother who had my room key, and to be honest I’d rather have my mother visit me than him.

“Darlene?”

Too bad it wasn’t my mother.

“What?” I replied.

“Why aren’t you writing?” He asked as I felt the bed dip.

I refused to look at him, afraid he’d see right through me like he always does.

“Is it because I’m leaving?” He whispered.

Tears began to involuntarily spill from my eyes. Traitorous liquid. I immediately felt his arms around me, a welcome treat for me.

“Shh. Don’t cry.” He murmured to my ear. “I’m here. Don’t worry.”

“But your leaving.” I said, chocking on my own sad words.

“But it’s for us. For both of us to have a better future.”

“You can find work here. Where you don’t have to go for a whole year. I could find two jobs. I don’t want you to go away. I don’t want you to forget me.”

I was sobbing into his arms now, my words all meshed together. He kissed me forehead and hugged me tighter.

“That’s why I need you to keep on writing. You could send me every chapter you wrote everyday, or even just a chunk of it. If you keep writing I get to read what’s on your mind, whether it’s me or anything else.”

I didn’t say a thing, but I slowly calmed down. Thoughts of him smiling as he read my stories filled my mind, a smile painting itself on my own face. Soon we were both sitting up on my bed, both facing each other.

“I could buy you a new laptop so you would stop using that old thing.”

He pointed to my beloved typewriter, which was twice as old as I was. The prospect of not having to waste paper when I got an error sounded appealing.

“Deal.”

“Would you write for me please?” He asked, eyes wide.

“As long as you’re my muse,” I said, holding back another tear, “I’d write a thousand stories till you come home.”

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Fiction is <3.

Just a side note: Less Than Three is now available on Kindle for $6.99! Click here: Less Than Three
It is also available on Lulu, a soft bound book, $12.60 at 10% discount till February 10. Less Than Three
I am also looking for someone to review my book on their blog. Don’t hesitate to email me at lean.lacaba@gmail.com.