An untold story

Here I am again.

I always get fascinated by the magic of a pen and paper. With the clout of the two, one doesn’t have to create a naturalistic atmosphere from within which inner recesses would unfold. Just let the hand talk, allow it to say all the right words at the right lines, just as the plot needs them, after a few moments, a different sentiment of relief will soon be felt.

It wasn’t so long when I had this desire, to write. But then again… No way am I going to become a novelist or a poet or an essayist or a playwright. I may have all the passion but I don’t have enough potentials. That is a plain fact. But I am exerting some efforts.

For another attempt, I am thinking on how I should begin my story.

I guess this would be the start.

He was not good-looking, yet he was princely.

No. I don’t feel like that. And he doesn’t also. But there’s one thing I am sure of, he is my clinical instructor and I am his student. And the only thing that is between us are the fragments of chalk dusts floating in the air.

I used to admire some faculty member’s expertise. But my admiration for one of them went too far.

Time really scuttles far faster than they are prepared for.

(Let’s call him Mr. X)

Mr. X, on the flip side, became closer to me. I’ve started receiving an uncommon kind of treatment that a usual student of him doesn’t catch up. I can’t say that he was acting like that way because of my exceptional performance during his class but I guess he started to fall for me because of my sweet ways.

The end of the prelims gets me underway of having a great deal of trouble with the word” romance”.

Unexpectedly, both of us later had a mutual run-off-the-mill attraction. The next thing I knew, we were going out together already.

Laid back, Mr. X and I built a world of “us versus them” affair, in which we sheltered and hid for a lingering time.

Yes, we were dating for four months (but sexual awakening never happened).

As time goes on, I became comfortable with his presence, making it seem though there’s more of him shinning through his character as my aficionado rather than an ordinary prof himself.

He never considered the possibility that he might risk his teaching career even though it embodied everything about his life. And that convinced me that he is worth all my attention.

Indeed, it’s like magic- how I changed with the moments and the accompanying experiences and perspectives.

And what an education I’ve acquired- though not the intended one.

I discovered that a hug can cool down faster than a tepid sponge bath; I have learned to hear a heart’s beat manually without using the stethoscope; and I came to the understanding that medical hand washing alone can not free you from the threats of the dirty world.

Without a doubt, at its core, our relationship isn’t just about an explosive liaison between a barely teenage girl and an unfunny prof. Rather it is…Rather it is…OMG…I cannot weave the proper words to note down.

I’m on my way to crumpling this paper once more.

I guess this would be the end. Three…Two…One…(krshkkkkkkk…)

T’is already past two in the morning, yet still, everything is undone again.

I have no choice. I think it is better for me to sleep.

Somehow, it is not always a writer’s fault when he cannot carry on writing. Maybe some accounts are not worth putting out; certain stories are never meant to be circulated, a number of tales shouldn’t be told.

Unluckily, mine is not worthy to be in print in a paper.