Prologue
It is a truth universally acknowledgedthat the greatest love stories share one common factor: the meet-cute.
That stolen glance from the beautiful stranger across the room, the quickening of one’s heart.That’show you know you’re guaranteed a happily-ever-after. My parents are living proof of that.
For most hopeless romantics, they dote onElizabeth and Mr. Darcy, Jack and Rose,evenLara Jean and Peteras the standard of a great romance. Yet, to me, they don’t compare tomyvery own Saralyn and Enzel Garcia. Aka, Mum and Dad.
They both met at 18 years old, the age that one apparently finds their promised forever. For Dad, it waslove-at-first-sightthe moment he laid eyes on Mum, but for her, it’s a different story.Sheclaims it washate-at-first-sight. Really, who could blame her, since her first impression was Dad clumsily spilling halo-halo all over her pretty sunflower dress right by the food table at the Filipino fiesta.
The rest, as they say, is history.
If I’m the subject of the greatest love story, it makes me wonder whether such a story is written for me. After all, this ismylast year of 18. I’ve only got a few months of 18 left in me, before I inevitably bid farewell to the age that happily-ever-after was promised for them.
And while I know thatmytimeline could very much differ from theirs, I can’t help this deep desire for my own love story to unravel in the same vein. That’s how I’ll know it’ll stick.
Except…I haven’t even met anyone yet. Let alone, had a meet-cute. Not even close.
I’ve had crushes, yes, amultitudeof them during high school, but most, if not all of them, ended in me being ridiculed or ignored.
Whatever. They all don’t matter anymore because this year is going to be different. Starting anew in film school, out of the disastrous claws of high school, there’ll be new people to meet.
Justimagineall the possible meet-cutes.
I don’t even need meet-cutes in plural.
I just need the rightoneto findmy one.
My own happily-ever-after.
One
‘Love doing life with you’
The happy couple on my phone grins up at me, a blatant mockery of my own single-self. I heave a groan as I scroll through yetanotherrelationship hard-launch jumpscare on my feed. Seriously, that’s thethirdone this morning. Is it the season for being happy and in love, or something?
“Are you okay there?”
My younger sister, Ria, leans over the sofa I’m sitting on, her nose hovering above my shoulder. Her dark pigtails brushes against my cheek, and I flick it away.
“I’m fine, why do youask?”
“Yeah, sayingI’m finewhile practically growling does not mean you’re fine.”
Always the perceptive half of me, it seems. She climbs over the couch and settles beside me. I turn my phone, showing her the post.
“Whoarethese random people?” she scoffs, pinching the photo to zoom in closer.
Her words remind me that they’re just that -random people.Well, not so much to me, since they were my old peers from high school, but still. It’s been 6 months since I graduated from the place, meaning I should definitely graduate from its people too. I can’t believe Ria still has two more years of that to endure.
I close the phone, and pocket it away. That’s enough sulking over happy couples today.
Within seconds, I unlock my phone again, and continue scrolling. My eyes narrow, and it’s like I’m a bloodhound now for happy couples on my feed.
“You look demonic,” Ria comments.
“I willbecomedemonic if I see another hard launch on my feed.”
I haven’t even had my first kiss yet.
