At the foot of my California King bed, I sat watching the television. Unmoving and inert; my feet crossed; my hands lying still and neatly folded on my lap. Alone and isolated; just myself inside my colossal room of a well-rehearsed and well-praised layout.

​            But—if I thought about it, I was a complete contradiction. Inside, I was running, rushing, out of breath and overwhelmed, looking and looking and looking back and at its everywhere. I was being heavily rained down of feelings and memories, so utterly lovely I might have just cried, so incredibly horrifying I might have just cried.

​            I was crying.

​            I was crying as I watched the television, a flickering of colors from white to black, from happy to sad, from complete to broken. It showed pictures of me and him, a few short clips of us on and off the camera, and a quick précis of what they called an “intense love story.”

​            “…after his break-up with Kim Chiu almost two years ago, is Gerald Anderson ready to fall in love again? This time, will it be with Sarah Geronimo? Gerald Anderson, revealing his secrets, live on the Buzz!”

​            Ah, so that was it, just an interview for the promotion of his new movie with Sarah Geronimo. What was the movie called again? Catch Me, I’m In Love? What was it about again? About being brave and falling in love once more after heartbreak? Now that I thought about it, his past with me is just so perfect to use in promoting his new movie. Was it just yesterday that Gerald shot me right through the heart, gave me an unforgivable blow to the chest? That hurt, Gerald. That hurt, that hurt, that hurt. But now, they were making it look like he was hurt too, just to make him seem brave for accepting the idea of love again. That hurt, Gerald, that hurt…

​            The television filled up with hoots and screams—and there he was, beaming in my screen. He stood—a face like no other, all dashing in his blazer and polo, his hair combed back like a slick dark classic, with eyes that glinted like rare golden dollar coins. He greeted the interviewer, Carol, with a knock-out grin, the kind that was made to make anyone swoon within an instant. Clean, neat, perfectly fine. Gerald Anderson was perfectly fine.

​            “You piece of !”

​            My hand that was once neatly folded calm upon my lap instantaneously went rampant. It reached madly for the remote and, with swift passion, threw it at the television.

​            “You piece of ,” I muttered in renouncing weariness.

​            A livid cry; a thud against the screen; another against the floor; a televised knock-out grin.

​            I looked at the remote lying dead on the floor. I cursed it as it betrayed my wish that it could, at least, wipe the grin off his face.

​            Looking back at the television, I studied Gerald—focusing more on how his eyes flickered, how his hands glided through space, how his right leg shook up, down, how his mouth hinted just barely of either a smile or a frown—how he looked so good, so good. I didn’t really want to hear his sugar-coated words for Sarah, or the silly and assuming questions about the two of them that Carol threw at him. I knew for a fact that he hardly knows her. We never associated ourselves with that woman even back then.

​            From the get-go, he had the crowd in euphoria and under his spell. Carol asked him too-romantic questions, but he bounced back with answers that didn’t confirm anything and left the audience in analysis and wishful-thinking. His energy was a blow-away that further invigorated the already-mad audience. He laughed and laughed, beamed and beamed, answered and answered in such confidence, it pained me.

​            “—so Gerald, the line from the trailer that really caught my attention was, ‘Catch me, I’m in love.’” Carol paused, closed her eyes, as if to inhale and cherish the moment such line was given at, as if the line was some fleeting, beautiful thing that you really had to apprize.

​            I snorted. Well, it was just some cheesy line that had lost feeling as it had been thrown around like bait to a fish. It had lost originality as it had been rolled off millions and billions of tongues—a moment you can’t really call your own since someone already does. Everyone probably already does.

​            “Have you ever said that line to someone? Not in front of the cameras; just in real life. Have you?”

​            Gerald was quick to answer. With brows furrowed and head nodding, he replied, “I have, yes,” in a matter-of-factly manner.

​            The crowd that hated me and loved Sarah went crazy; the crowd that loved me and hated Sarah went crazy. I bet both sides were assuming that Gerald had said the line to whoever their idol was. What really struck me, though, was that I knew for a fact he actually had said those words to someone before.

​            He had said those words to me before.

​            I paused, closed my eyes, and thought hard.

​“Kimmy. Catch me, I’m in-love.”

​            I exhaled the breath I’d been holding in for so long; there I sat, once again a contradiction, a paradox. I knew, for sure, the moment he said those words to me was in all entirely just ours. Just mine and Gerald’s, no one else’s. I finally understood Carol and the way she had said the line—as cheesy as she was, as cheesy as it was.

​            “Kimmy. Catch me, I’m in-love,” Gerald had told me once on a chilly December midnight. It was a shooting day for what would turn out to be the last movie we were ever going to make. We sat side by side, waiting almost an hour under the Philippine sky for the next scene to be shot. The air smelled sharply of bitter sea salt as Manila Bay slept next to us. The long day’s work was starting to take its toll and my eyes were becoming heavy.

                I remember leaning my head against Gerald’s shoulder. I remember realizing I was beginning to fall asleep that I quickly straightened myself up. I was on the brink of losing my sanity when I glanced wearily at him.

                He looked back, such a handsome face. He always, always seemed to be deep in thought with those thick-set brows that moved more than his nightly irises. He showed me a weak lopsided smile—his lower lip that was fuller than the one above altogether began moving in little movements I could barely comprehend. Then he was chanting louder. And although he was never the singer, he was whispering out the chorus of “I Want to Know What Love Is.” I heard every word as I stared at him. He had his eyes closed and his head was slowly rocking my heart.

                I was smiling.

                Blinded.

                Love-struck.

                His last note dwindled and he opened his eyes. He slowly leaned in towards me. I smelled a whiff of his Old Spice when his lips pressed softly against my forehead. He lowered his head; his lips tickled my ear. He whispered it to me, just a little hush. Kimmy. Catch me, I’m in love. He held my hand for the rest of that night. And the all-consuming energy of life flowed through our entwined fingers and I was alive.

                We already loved each other then and we both knew it, but there wasn’t any commitment. Maybe there was, but it was unspoken. Either way, there was just something about him falling in something like Love—in all its madness, in all its ability to skin you alive and horrifyingly take complete and utter control of you. There was just something about him bravely choosing me, of all people, to be the one to catch him in Love. There was just something about him letting me be the one to change him forever.

                Kimmy. Catch me, I’m in love. The number of words in the line may have been the same; the order in which the letters fell may have been the same; the sentence, if written down on ruled paper, may have looked the same. But… it’s not really all that much the same as all the others who’d said the line.

​            Ours was different. The meaning behind the words originated beyond its dictionary meaning. The sentence brought upon the start of such potential and promise only Gerald and I could fathom. Only we can really remember and feel the passion and pleasure behind every moment that led to and came after it—every crashing of the lips, every igniting glances, every tug at each other’s skin. But most of all, the man whose lips spoke of it, there is no one else like him.​

​            “After coming from a long-term relationship that didn’t work out, are you ready to fall in love again, Gerald?” asked Carol. “You know, your relationship with Kim isn’t something you could easily throw away I would think. I mean, even though you and her only admitted to having a special relationship—not really fully admitting to a committal boyfriend-girlfriend bond, both of you still spanned over four years; that has got to be something. So, do you think you’re ready to fall in love again?”

​            With a quick wisp of his breath, Gerald answered, “Yes, I’m ready.” He nodded his head over and over again as if no one believed him, as if he wanted so badly to convince everyone that yes, he was actually ready to fall in love again. “I mean, you know, even if I’m not ready, you can’t—” he shook his head “—you can’t really stop yourself from falling in love. It really—it doesn’t really matter.”

​            “Oh!” It wasn’t at all passive when Carol made the O-sound. It hinted on something, drove the audience wild and curious. I, myself, was curious. Then she repeated his statement, “‘It doesn’t really matter,’” with so much dripping malice that I finally understood.

​            It doesn’t really matter. What was that all about? What was that supposed to mean?

​            Carol aimed an accusing finger at Gerald, shot him a scrutinizing gaze. “Gerald Anderson, as we talk today, are—you—already—in-love?”

​            With an explosive puff of breath through gritted teeth and a static rioting of an audience in the background, I burst out in laughter. In love? With who? Sarah Geronimo? How ridiculously silly! I doubled over and my chest shook as it tightened with laughter. Cackled, shook, cackled, shook, cackled, shook, cackled, shook… until all I was doing was just spitting spit as my laugh started to come out forced.

​            With my head still lying on my lap, I stopped laughing. The gears of my cackling system skidded brusquely to a stop. A jarring sound broke out in the air as it did; my mouth had emitted an awkward cry of a squawk. Then the moment hung in silence—a long thoughtful pause that became excruciating.

​            I sneered as I realized I had grown bitter. I hated Carol. I hated her for asking Gerald if he was in-love. I hated her for being so prying and nosy.

​            I sniffled, a sound so weak and childish compared to the shrill and confident laugh I had just let out a few moments ago. My skirt was all wet now. Was it because of my spit—or my tears?

​            Gerald still had not answered the question. What’s taking you so long! I watched him with a passive smirk unwaveringly taped onto his face. He stared just a bit incredulously at Carol. He was stalling, buying himself some time, thinking his answer through, looking up a way to skirt the question. Why! You are in love, aren’t you!

​            “Well?” Carol probed on. Come on. Give us the answer. Come on. “You and Sarah are really, very compatible, just saying. She might actually be the one for you, you never know.” She turned to the audience for some backing-up and fortunately for Carol, they were ecstatic.

​            Wild hoots. “Sarah!” Cheerful cries. “Gerald!” Blissful laughter. “Sarah, Gerald!” While I was hoping that Carol would shut the hell up, the audience was delighted, overjoyed, pleased.

​            Gerald—seemingly thrilled by the idea—heartily chuckled along with the crowd.

​                When the commotion withered down, with a momentarily cast-down of his eyes, Gerald spoke, “Right now, I’m in-love?” A quick pause but a pause, nonetheless. “Yes. Yes! I’m in love,” he said, the last word trailing off. “I’m in love with my work, in love with this movie, in love with the projects coming my way, in love with the overwhelming support of my fans—”

​                Cut that bull out, Gerald, I beg you.

​                Carol put up her hand and cut him off. Her face was scrunched up; in it carved dissatisfaction. “Um, Gerald,” she started with brows knitted together, “I’m going to repeat the question… Gerald Anderson, are you in love—with a girl, now? Yes or no?” Her hand sashayed along with her question. Her array of fingers cut through the air at every word, emphasizing the question to such great heights.

​                Gerald looked down, shook his head—you thought you can get away—softly chuckled, finally sighed and dropped his hand upon his thigh. “How much I want to answer yes,” he replied with eyes studying the ground. The words lingered on his tongue, took their time, spilled out slowly and deliberately from his mouth. His smile never ceased to touch his lips—an infinity that irked me so much. “But, um,” he continued after a considerate pause, finally looking up, his head tilting to his right, his eyes boring cheerfully into Carol’s, “right now, I’ll wait for the right time, and see, if she comes along. We’ll see.”

​                “Oh, okay, so is—is that a yes, a no, or you’d rather keep quiet?” Carol still wasn’t satisfied. But she did have a point. Gerald’s answer could not be held against him; no one could really tell whether it was a raw yes or a frank no. Always the elusive and sly one.

​                Right then, I felt like grabbing him, kneeling before him, hoping, begging, pleading for him to please, please, please be brave and say whatever it is that needed to be said.

​                But he was speechless. He put his microphone right before his mouth, but it was no use. No words came out that needed to be amplified.

​                He was quick to recover, though. He bounced back and confidently answered, “There’s nothing to keep quiet about—”

​                “Oh, okay.” Carol looked at him and nodded her head. Her brows furrowed in genuine consideration.

​                “—Yeah. For now, no,” he continued, the last word emphasized like a punch to my guts. “I’m not in-love with any girl.” He concluded his statement with a shake of his head.

​                I’m not in-love with any girl…

​                “Gerald, my last question.” Carol’s tone took that of a serious one. I knew then that she was done with the make-the-audience-giddy-by-stimulating-wishful-thinking phase. “Who is,” she began and as if already anticipating an answer from him and trying to get a specific name out of his system, she added, “or who was… your greatest romantic love?” She spoke slowly, enunciating every syllable there was.

​                I had a feeling she was trying to get my name out of Gerald, which was big trouble for him. I knew he was trying to steer clear from matters between me and him. We wouldn’t want the fans of his tandem with Sarah thinking he was still hung up on me, now would we?

​                Gerald looked away from Carol and sighed. He shook his head in disbelief and was at a loss for words, all the while still with a smile on his face. “Is this the way out?” He jokingly gestured towards the side of the stage—signaling a walk-out—and laughed.

​                Carol played along; she put both her hands up in surrender. “We’re not forcing anyone here, we’re not,” she said, grinning. “But we need a name! If you can answer it, answer it. If not, you can… you can walk away. And we will respect that.”

​                Gerald laughed—well, at least, tried to laugh. Had it not been for the upturned corners of his mouth, the gesture would have passed off as a nervous puff of breath. 

​                “Um, who is”—he raised his brows at Carol—“my greatest love?” He shrugged and after a quick glance at the audience, looked down. He held the waiting microphone before his mouth. “Well,” he began, unsure, “you know, Carol, I’m only 23.” He was squinting, seemingly starting to really concentrate on the ground before him. “At this age, my greatest love is something I’ve yet to find.”

​                Although I had been hearing my name being shouted shamelessly by some people in the background ever since Carol brought up the question, I couldn’t help but feel slightly insulted and inadequate for all the four years we’d been together. Hadn’t I had enough?

​                “Just romantic love, then?” Carol offered as an alternative.

​                Gerald had another suggestion. Brows arched, a free hand raised in offering, the upturned corners of his mouth slowly diminishing to just barely there, he quickly butted in and proposed, “First love?”

​                And first love, it was, as Carol agreed and said, “First love,” like a sigh, like everything had finally fallen back into place, like it was the happily-ever-after.

​                My eyes had already fluttered close. My lips were pursed and I was not breathing. Not yet. It was like a split-second interval that was long enough to make me go insane. First love. Everything was caught mid-air, left hanging, waiting for the jury’s diction.

​                Don’t say it, Gerald. Don’t say it.

​                But with his head tilting and eyes slowly fluttering close ironically for a second, he said his weary submission.

​                “First love, of course, is Kim… It’s really Kim.”

​                And that was it.

​                A ripple of glorious cheers went through the crowd and they rejoiced. They rejoiced and they rejoiced.

​                My eyes abruptly opened and I exhaled sharply. I watched him, only to be bombarded with further affirmations of his first love.

​                “She was my first love,” he had said. And he smiled—his eyes joyfully squinting to a delicate slant, the cute little creases under them going visible.

​                That was it. He was happy. I should be happy. I knew then that I needed to move on. But I needed to know where to move on. I needed to see him.

 

 

---

 

Comment and subscribe, please! This chapter is dedicated to Guia. Ikaw na ang baliw sa Kimerald! Ikaw na talaga! Haha :)

Anyways, I have been working on Part 2 of this story for such a long time now and I just can't seem to find the right way to end it, so although Part 2 is halfway done, I can't say that I will be finishing it soon :D 

— Iris