ligaya.

To love. Sincerely yours, Madrigal C.

Surely, every now and then every person falls in love, right? With a book, a baked treat, a telenovela, or with a person. Loves comes in different forms— from adoration for a plant and to love that yearns deeply within for a person.

I, for one, grew up without being familiar with the concept of love. To love, what does it mean? To love a book— to be so engrossed on a series you do nothing but read all day with your head burried in it. To love a baked treat— coming in a shop with the air filled with the fresh scent of baked pastries accompanied with the newly brewed coffee at seven (7) A.M.

Or— to love a person. A human being that feels (every human being feels) How difficult is it? How do you do it?

Perhaps, I, too, have loved once. Love for my mother. Though, I am not certain if it truly is love or guilt that haunts me around.

“You okay there, querida?” He asked, the light sound of a wooden spoon dropping to the ground following him after. I glance at him, “My apologies,” I spoke, “You caught me off guard.”

“Mm, so, hey, I was thinking,” Camilo said, sitting down beside me as he placed his plate filled with today's breakfast. It was just me and him alone for today. “Do you wanna accompany me for today?” He asked.

“I always accompany you every day,” I respond, looking at him both confused and curious. Is there another event going on? “Ah, sorry, what I meant was,” he paused, clearing his throat, “Oh, señorita [name]! Will you do the honour of being my date for today, bonita?”

Date? What for? “What’s the occasion?” I asked, biting on the sandwich Julieta made an hour ago. It's gone quite cold. “Aye, you didn't hear? Isabela’s hosting it!” He answered, placing his arms on the table. Isabela? No wonder why she looked thrilled earlier when leaving Casita. I wonder what it is.

I sigh, looking at him. “I don't have a choice, do I?” He ridiculously smiled, a wide grin on his face. “Nope!”

▬▬▬▬

A small area stood at the other side of town. It resembled a maze. Only for the walls to be tall, green bush all around the area. Maybe we're paying them for us to get lost? “How does this work?” I ask Camilo who had an enthusiastic smile on his face. It was obvious how excited he was. “Ever heard of paint ball?” He said, face now adorned with a mischievous grin.

I don't think I'll like this one. “What about it?” I ask, raising an eyebrow in curiosity. “Two players go against each other. In the maze, you have eight (8) minutes to find one another. Whoever gets hit the most, wins,” he answered, grinning like a madman. He just wants me to lose, doesn't he..

I shiver at the thought of his playful smirk. I could tell he was waiting for my loss so he could rub it all over me and tease me about it. Looks like the Camilo Madrigal doesn't go down that easily with their high pride.

I sigh, “And I have to play with," I pause, hesitating to see that amused grin of his. “you?” He laughed, snapping his fingers as he nodded. “Correct!” He said.

I stood silent. Would it proper to do so? A sigh once again left my lips. Camilo's smile faded, I winced upon notice. He looked at me with worry and confusion all over his face. “Are you okay? We don’t have to do it, sorry for getting carried away,” he said, gently placing his hands on my back.

“Yes— I mean, technically not, but I would not want to ruin this for you,” I bit my lip. Hard. Was blood coming out already? I could taste a bit of its metallic taste seeping in my mouth. “Querida,” he spoke mellowly, his tone gentle— far different from what his voice would usually sound like. “It's alright, you don’t have to force yourself.”

“I do. It's just,” I paused. It was though my words were being pulled back in my throat by some sort of guilt. Mother wouldn't want this, would she? It would be a disgrace to the legacy and family name to see their daughter being so carefree. “I feel ashamed,” I answer. Truthfully.

I could tell my voice was weak. Both small and inaudible. It came out as a whisper— I'm unsure if he even heard that. “Of what others may think,” I spoke, “Of what they would think of me. When they see me being so,” I took a deep breath. It was as if I would get devoured by guilt if I say those words. It felt suffocating— to be constantly tied down to a string of mad expectations and burden.

“Free,” I let out a breath, hesitatingly saying those words as they slipped out so easily albeit being laced with fear. I could tell he was looking at me. With his gaze lingering at me, I sheepishly look down, ashamed of my confession.

He pulled me in his embrace with gentle and welcoming arms. It felt unreal. His touch felt different from what reality would be. I could feel my chest heaving and my heart beating along with his. His warmth engulfing my body.

“Who cares what others think?” He whispered, voice as soft as his embrace. “What they say to you doesn't make you what you are.” His voice was warm. In a way I didn't know how to describe it. It felt similar to his embrace.

“You being yourself is what’s enough,” he said, sheepishly pulling away. “You're pretty amazing. Bet their opinions are shit, anyway,” he joked, laughing. His smile was different from what I would normally see. It wasn't his amused smirk nor his mischievous grin— it was a genuine, warm smile. One that would brighten up anyone’s day easily.

Maybe this is what love really means.