There are worse things I could do.


In an outburst, she tells you that you’re it—the one that has been making her happy for the past few weeks; the one she tells you about: the person that’s making her smile, and the person that keeps her inspired.

Somehow, you’ve known all along.

You only smile.


It started with a simple exchange of messages that turned into late night talks and early morning greetings. Perhaps, you long realized it when she said she missed you which was weird given the fact that you last talked to her early that morning.

You respond with, “I’m glad,” because you are. It makes you glad that you make her happy. You know how she’d been lonely and knowing that you’re the one person that broke through her routine of being constantly overdriven by emotions, it makes you feel happy, too.

It was nice feeling wanted again. You haven’t felt it in a while, so it’s quite nice.

You still smile every time you remember her confession. It still makes your heart flutter.


Your first reaction to attraction is detachment.

It’s a cliché, and it’s probably an overrated one, but you’ve been burned before; you didn’t want to touch the fire twice.

But perhaps, it was her confession that took you over the edge. You finally saw her beyond her façade; slowly, she let you in. You thought you knew her before but you were wrong.

Heck, you weren’t even close.

Over time, you realized that she’s your ideal girl: smart (probably smarter than you, and that’s a first; you’re always smarter than most people you know), classy (she knows how to carry herself well), and she pays attention to details (you know deep inside that you’re a person of details; that you’re made up of details, the kind of details one won’t see if they’re not looking for it).

Best of all, she’s everything your past is not—bad and good; and she’s everything you’re not, which means, for sure, it’s possible to love her.

But she’s broken and under normal circumstances, you would have run for the hills the moment she told you about her feelings but you didn’t because there’s something about her. For a moment, you thought it was your Jesus complex working at a rapid pace but no, you don’t want to save her; you want to be part of how broken she is because she makes you realize that people fuck up all the time and that’s okay. When she shatters, she shatters beautifully.


She tells you she’s in love with you.

You nod.

You wanted to say it back.

But you only nod.

Growing up, you’ve learned—the hard way—that there’s a right time for everything.

You’re messed up, pretty badly; and though you have not cared for so long about the people in your life that gets tangled up in your lame excuse for a life, you didn’t want to her to be one of your mistakes.

There’s a lot of fixing to do and you wanted to give her your best—and best to you means all of you; the entirety of you.


“I love you,” you tell her.

You feel her smile.

You didn’t want her to be one of your mistakes.

It’s complicated but now you’re sure of it—she’s one of the best decisions you’ve made in your life, and also the bravest one.


You were 16 when you stopped believing that the past goes away. At the back of your mind you know that one’s past is a bitch, always finding ways to slap you right back when you least expect it.

One day, it happened again—the past; your complicated, barely unresolved past crept up its way to your nearly perfect present.

She’s hurt; you know she is.

You’re guilty.

She’s breaking in front of you and though she shatters gracefully, you hated it when you’re the reason she’s falling apart.

You don’t know how to use the word “sorry”. So, you didn’t.


You try to piece it back together: glue, stitches, wires—whatever was necessary to put it back together.

She shuts you out, pushes you away, and keeps you out of the loop.

You figured you deserved it.

You can’t blame her.

Your first reaction to pain is detachment.

She can’t blame you.

You don’t know how to apologize. So, you didn’t.


Finally, the sword you’ve both been using became a double-edged samurai: the more you hurt each other, the more cuts you got on your own.

It all became too much one day. The bottles in the sink reminded you of the past you were trying so hard to run away from. The numbers of cigarette sticks you’ve consumed reflect the person you haven’t been for the longest while.

You almost drown in your thoughts; you almost went back to whom you used to be before she came; but then, just like always, she takes you back to being the sane, rational version of you. With one simple text message, she tells you how you’re hurting her with what you’re doing to yourself.

It took you back to the day she told you that you make her happy; and you just want her to be happy all over again.

You don’t know how to use the word “sorry” but you tried it this time.


The apology was faint.

Barely there, but there.

She doesn’t say anything and holds your hand instead.


She tells you about her dreams, you don’t tell her yours; you don’t have any.

She plans for her future, you don’t plan yours; you don’t have one.

She tells you she loves you, you say it back; it’s the only thing you know.


When it all comes down to it—even the cynics know—at the end of the day, all we want is to be loved in return.

Your story is a constant push and pull; a long, chronic pattern of pushing away each other and then, pulling each other back.

All the while, you thought she’s the broken one; but in the span of time you’ve known her, it’s probably you. Maybe you’re the one with fresh wounds, while hers are merely battle scars.

You look at her one last time and you smile as you dispose the pack of cigarettes you’ve kept with you. You think of her as you empty the contents of your flask.

You look her straight in the eyes and then, you slowly begin to unlearn the word “sorry” again.

You’ve been sorry of so many things in your life: your past, your mistakes, your decisions; and you don’t want her to be one of your sorry misses.

She’s everything you never thought you wanted; but she’s everything you need and she’s right there—meeting you halfway.

How can one be sorry for that?


There Are Worse Things I Could Do (Grease)



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