Destiny's Advocate

1. Most Special

You had always thought the first words that were spoken to you since you've arrived to be the most special, in a way that only a few particular people could ever understand. The privilege of being addressed in consideration, or some sort of admiration, could make anyone's head filled with euphoria.

But, you sigh. Maybe you're just wishing for some fairy-tale that doesn't come true. After all, you're talking with a waiter, and you know he won't speak in consideration, or that admiration you're thinking of. 

If anything, he reminds you of yourself. He's a nervous wreck, hiding behind his notepad, few strands of blonde sticking out as if his mother sleeked it back, but it had begged to differ.

"Wh—" He sputters, "Welcome, I mean, to Goh Rong restaurant. What, what would you like to order?"

"The," you clear your throat, attempting to meet his eyes. "The menu? That's well, normally, given in restaurants? Unless, of course, this restaurant just, well, ran out of menus or, well..." You trail off, putting your hands in your laps a little too forcefully, and finding the tablecloth very interesting.

"Dada," he pipes up, and he nods his head vigorously when it probably came out a little too high-pitched for his liking. It wasn't to you, of course, but maybe he thought it was too high-pitched for you, and he nodded his head because of that? Or maybe, you nod your own head. You need to stop overthinking. "That's um, that's my name. And um, you see, we don't," his voice turns into a whisper, "we don't have menus."

You nod slowly, trying to give him a genuine smile. "Whatever's okay, you know, I can eat whatever because I don't have any allergies, and, well, I wasn't much of a picky eater back at home and," you catch yourself rambling again, "yeah..."

When Dada scribbles something into his notes and disappears behind the kitchen's doors, you blink. What if he scribbled that you're not allowed to be here anymore because you disrespected the restaurant? What if he's asking for another waiter to take care of you because you're too annoying and talk too much? Think too much? What if, you flick your own head, and all the thoughts cease.

You've always done this when you open your mouth: shooting a hundred miles per second. It was a habit you had tried to break since you were a kid, but it was proven to be borderline impossible. Maybe it's because you couldn't find any other alternative to cope with the anxiety that accompanies the silence of a conversation, or the awkwardness of one.

In the midst of your thoughts, you hear your name. You take a look around, settling onto the mailman across the room. He calls your name again, and you gulp, feebly raising your hand. You silently thank that destiny had turned a blind eye to you, because the mailman had spotted your weak hand, and walked over to hand you your package.

You place it in front of you, opening it with excellent precision. Your hands find the letter filled to the brim with your mother's handwriting, and you scan over its contents:

To my little sweetheart,

Your five-year-old self asked me once what I pictured when I thought of your future. I did not have an answer for you. In truth, the flames of uncertainty still burn with intensity. Very recently, I have found something that burns just as hot as your future. Your past.

You've always loved that show, where the heroine would save the day. Remember? You'd jump on the couch, and save Dad from your siblings?

The jacket and mask pay homage to this particular past. I've worked tirelessly for the coat to unfurl into the heroine's outfit when you unzip it, and back. Your dad made the mask (that's why some of it's not colored inside the lines. Hee-hee.)