Where Shall I Begin?

Where shall I begin? Shall I begin at the very beginning? That first day of class, and the first I saw you? That day when you were just a pretty girl in the room for me? But, by whatever forces are at work in the universe, what a pretty girl you were. The way you sat there and slouched your slender build and skinny arms, unmindful of how your posture seemed to ask me for an embrace. The way your black bangs fell from your thick short hair to the side of your face, denying me view of that which I shall soon discover to be right out of my childhood dreams. Dreams that have grown more and more jaded with age, the sole survivor being the image of that nameless face, made nameless by your existence. Shall I begin there? When I first talked to you, under the pretense of some academic concern...but secretly hoping to establish a connection. Shall I begin there?

Or shall I begin at the time I first weaved an illusion that such a connection existed? When you said in class that your two favorite poems were both by Edgar Allan Poe, whom I've always thought was me in a past life. Or have I really? Or was that also part of the illusion I weaved?

Shall I begin at how I watched you from a distance? How I took delight at things as petty as the way your pants were folded at the ends one day, or the absence of your glasses? How that ridiculously made me feel like I see more of you when you are without those things, which I find very charming on you anyway. Or shall I begin at how I allowed myself to be troubled by anything that remotely looks like a rival? How I fretted at every touch, every glance you gave another girl. How I watched you lean your head on her shoulder, or hold her hand, and how I wished she had been me.

Or shall I begin at that last class meeting, when the thought struck me that I'd rather see you do all those things than not see you at all? When I thought so hard about talking to you, possibly for the last time. When the harder I thought about it, the weirder I seemed to myself. When I stayed in my seat after dismissal, just to look at you for two more seconds. When I got up and left the classroom as usual, as if you had not just mesmerized me for an entire semester, as if I did not need the reassurance I gave myself that it was just a crush. It would die soon. It was just a crush.

Shall I, perhaps, begin at how your phantom met me at every turn? How that ever-present image of the absent you, fresh out of my dreams, always stood between me and other girls. How I could not bring myself to like any other anymore, forever haunted by the spirit of she who had captured mine? Shall I begin there? When, for days, I had vainly tried to force the hand of fate into crossing my path with yours. When, for days, I had taken to visiting all the places where I had accidentally seen you at least once, hoping that you would be there when I am once again. In front of the College of Business Administration. In front of Kalayaan residence hall. In the Shopping Center.

Or shall I begin at the times our paths actually did cross? And without conscious effort on my part to make them. That day by the photocopy lady in Palma Hall. That time I saw you in the stone tables outside the Faculty Center. How I wish I had said, at the very least, greetings at those times. But instead I just pretended not to know you, for fear that you might suspect my true feelings for you.

Shall I begin at the time I decided I would want to transfer to a program in the college where I knew you were in? Shall I begin at how, every day of the first week, I entered the college building with all the enthusiasm and anxieties of a high-school boy anticipating new adventures? And maybe a little romance? Shall I begin at how my blood ran cold when I found out we were classmates again? When you, as you often had before, seemed to behold me with a look of weariness that I couldn't quite decide whether or not was of me.

Shall I begin at the days spent admiring you from a distance as before? Worshiping you in silence as before. Speaking in class as if being listened to by no one else but you. Savoring the victory in each time you accept my simple offerings of candy. Drawing illusions at every time you talk to me.

Shall I begin at how I had heard your voice amidst many others? How I turned to see you one among the troop of people wearing red? How I observed as though observing a younger, optimistic, revolutionary me? How I knew then that we had more in common than just being English majors, than being in the same class, than Edgar Allan Poe. How I knew then that I was you.

Shall I begin at how every day I talk to you, I discover more about your being, about my feelings. How every encounter intrigued me further. How you trapped me in your paradoxes. You're a little girl, you're an independent woman. You're diplomatic, you're revolutionary. You're so familiar, you're so alien. You're me, but I'm not you. Anymore. Shall I begin there?

Or shall I begin at how I decided I couldn't bear it any longer? How, in my frustration, in my confusion, in all my love and hate and foolishness and weakness and passion I lost control. And confessed. And how you said...

"I like somebody else."

But I digress. Where shall I begin?