LITERARY | Nasaan nga ba ako?

“Nasaan na si Leo?”, they asked.

They were at a meeting. I don't know why they decided to continue on with the meeting since it was a very rainy afternoon—the classroom was gloomy, and the people that attended tried their best to not match the mood.

“Matagal nang wala si Arko ah. May nangyari ba do'n? Ba't ayaw niyo i-chat?”, were the pleas of the ones that truly “cared” about me.

But did they really?

After enough persuasion, they decided to call me. 

I declined the call.

They called again.

My phone was dead.

At this point, I imagine they're scrambling to find me—checking every corner, every floor, and even the closets—because they're that desperate. I think one of them's even crying out, you know?

But alas, I've had enough.

I wanna be known. I knew that fact ever since I was young. I wanted my work to become famous. I wanted to win every accolade I wanted—from the gold in any competition, to being awarded for my narrative. I knew that, and I so desperately wanted that.

I reminded myself that with every step I took across the rooftop.

The rain was clashing as I was walking up the stairs. However, the loud screams of the thunder and the rain would not waver my thoughts away. 

Here I am. 

I can't turn back. And even if I could, I wouldn't. The loud noise of the storm blanks my mind, but all I want to do is die. I remember everything as I know it—the countless times I've been discarded, the countless times I've felt worthless here, the garbage literary works I've written, and the countless participation certificates I've gathered.

This seems… thrilling.

My stomach churns, as if it's telling me not to continue. I won't listen. 

They didn't listen to me, right?

I already left my final farewell in my bag. I also sent a copy to my adviser.

I think they found it already, and are trying to find me on the rooftop. 

They won't find me on time.

I shed my final tear, and I prepared myself. They're the ones at fault here, not me. I've endured my own pain while they tormented me. Be the best, my ###. I never was. How could I believe all of you, as you left me out in all your plans, only congratulated those “who deserved it”, i.e. me, and you did not give a damn about me?

I don't deserve better.

As the air embraced me in the fall, someone called out, loudly opening the rooftop door:

“Jon!”

“We're too late.”

I'm now known by everybody—if you look behind the lines.