You.

Last Friday we were less than pleased when we found out our school’s volleyball varsity tryouts were to take place RIGHT AFTER PE class. And you can only imagine the buckets of sweat (and party pounds) we shed, what with all the hummus. All the way I went, pushing myself to do one last pushup or jog another grueling round. My brain was practically divided into several mindsets, and each was telling me to do a completely different thing from the other. At least now, working out would be an obligation, not something I have to drag myself out of bed at 5 AM for.

By some miracle, I still had leftover energy (which made me quite disappointed—that only means I didn’t give my all at the tryouts), so I decided to exhaust myself further by shooting some hoops. Free throws at the open court behind our school. Most of us had already gone home, so the only ones still there were two of my girl classmates, (cue Jaws theme song) my trying-to-avoid-you-but-it-hurts-inside ex and his best friend.

Missed another shot. And it was totally out of range. I was about to give up on the free throws when all of a sudden, my ex walks toward the now-empty court, stands right in front of me and says, “Try that again.”

I didn’t know if I was supposed to be relieved or disappointed, but I do what he tells me to do, and miss once again. He smiles the smile that only I seem to appreciate—imperfect and close to plasmatic but still weirdly cute. That made me lose even more concentration, the concentration I had been gathering from every pore of my body but couldn’t seem to utilize. Only he had the power to disarm me like that.


It made me realize how much I missed him, missed us. I was completely powerless to say anything against what was happening. After months of trying to forget, trying to accept, even forcing myself to love someone else—this was something I didn’t seem to have any control over. I couldn’t quite call it delving into the unknown—I’ve come to know him the way he’s come to know me. Nothing can change that.

After a zillion more missed shots, he grabs the ball and gives me a mock impatient look. “Okay, my turn,” he says, the ball firmly in his hand, and assumes his position. And voila…he misses. I must have rubbed off on him. “Nice one,” I say, and he abruptly shifts his body so he’s facing me.

“I told you…you’re my weakness.”

And then I remember the group text he had sent the night before.


The diamond, though the world’s strongest substance, with a dent or crack will still break.

So even the mightiest, the strong…always has a weakness.

And you’re my weakness.

I feel the blood rushing to my face. Oh, the agony. Trying to conceal it, I make a pathetic crack.

“And who says you’re a diamond?”

I break into a smile after hearing myself say that, and he, in turn, breaks…the awkwardness by suggesting we move to the other court.


“If I make this shot, I’m deleting my Facebook…” I remember saying.

“Go.”

And I made the shot. So my Facebook’s still up and running. We made it a little game of sorts—there was a consequence to every missed shot. All the while he smiled that imperfect smile, and it made me look at myself from his point of view.

He looked at me like I was perfect—like I wasn’t messed up, my face shiny with sweat and the wind whipping my hair in different directions. He smiled the way he did when I hugged him for giving me roses on Valentine’s Day. And we talked to each other like we had never argued at all.

Out of the blue, he asks a serious question.

“Do you love him?”

“Him” is the guy that I have been linked to (read: against my free will) these past few days. “Him” is the guy that he hangs out with like there’s nothing wrong. “Him” is the guy I will never seem to look at as more than a friend.

Gripping the basketball tighter in my hand, I say it firmly.

“No.”

I make a shot. It seems as if the ball hangs in the air for a second, then allows itself to make its way to the rim, bounce on it twice, then reach the ground. Two clanging sounds echo in contrast to the silence.

“And I never will.”

He turns around and picks the ball up from the ground.

“If I make this shot…If I make this shot…”

“What?” I ask, so very accustomed to his katorpehan.

“If I make this shot, I’m ready.”

And he made it.