It’s been 25 long years since the last time.
I sat at the last bench, right in the middle like I used to. I looked to my right, then to my left, and I can still make out the faces that used to be there.
Where could they be now? Are they still alive? When did the "forever friendship" die?
And where could she be? I still remember how perfect she was—her pimples and her dimples, her sneezes, and her laughs. Oh!
My dictionary had her name as a synonym for perfection.
She used to write my name on the blackboard for being a total nuisance, and I wrote her name in my heart for erasing it just before the teacher would come in.
I still remember standing at the old coffee shop, opposite the bus stop where she used to board. Did she ever notice me? Where could she be? Does she have children? I never had the guts to tell her how I felt. But one thing is for sure—15-year-old me knew it was love.
Why did I run away?
Was failing an exam such a big mistake?
Was my father’s cane really that strong to beat the sense out of me?
Were my mother’s words truly that emotionally disturbing?
15-year-old me couldn’t understand why my parents were so angry that the neighbor’s son had passed while I didn’t. Did they really hate me? What was I thinking that night when I left home, stealing money from my father?
Did I know where I was going?
I roamed around, stumbled along the way, and eventually forgot who I used to be.
Was I a slave to fate?
Didn’t I think of my family? Not even once?
Why didn’t I return home all these years?
At some point, I started questioning the meaning of my life. For whom was I living? Was I just dead weight?
I was thirsty for answers, and then one day, I dialed that old landline number—the only thing I could remember from my faded childhood. At a time when I couldn’t even recognize myself, the old lady on the other end recognized me as her son with just a “hello.” And then I decided to run back, to rediscover myself.
A gentle pat on my back.
He said, "Come, Dad, let’s go."
My son!
I once ran away from here, and now I’m bringing my son to this place.
I found him washing plates in a restaurant, his face carrying the same emptiness I used to see in the broken mirror I had in the slum.
I couldn’t leave him. I took him with me. I gave him food, I gave him clothes, and one day he asked me, “Can I call you Dad?” And I became a father. An unexpected guest in my empty world.
He once told me, “I never had a father, never had a mother. All I ever had were masters. I was never a child, I was always a slave.”
We both had no one else to live for, and so we started living for each other. I wasn’t sure if I was ready to be a father. To tell the truth, he taught me how to be one.
Why didn’t I marry? Was it because I never found that perfection I had in mind? Whom am I deceiving? I hope she’s doing well. Twenty-five years, and I still can’t forget those dimples.
We slowly walked out.
“Dad, a lady came and asked me to give you this.” He handed me a piece of paper.
Familiar handwriting.
“I’ll be at the bus stop, with my eyes fixed on the old coffee shop.”
Twenty-five years later, I found my heart racing.
“Son, how did she look?”
He said,
“She had a beautiful smile—with cute dimples.”
