June 20, 2015

It’s odd, but the moment I enter our new house it’s as if warmth welcomes me in, like it is just waiting for me to come, and the moment I did it has enveloped me like I am its master it have been waiting for, for so long.

I look up at the dusty ceiling already lined up with cobwebs, and at the staircase filled with dust, at some of the furniture the original owner had left behind—empty photo frames, shelves, a pile of old newspaper by the corner, old curtains and many others. Mom said the place had been completely abandoned for three years by the owner’s family, and was only convinced to sell the property about a year ago. Luckily, my father had gotten possession of it for a reasonable price, and now we’re finally here to settle in and live in for good.

I was originally against the idea of moving out from our old house and leaving our old neighborhood, but after seeing this house for the very first time when my father decided to visit it before buying it, there was just something in this house that convinced me to agree in moving in, in the end. It wouldn’t be that bad, would it? Besides, I’ve already seen my room before and it’s pretty spacious—enough to put all my stuff in.

“Eomma, I will start unpacking in my room if you don’t mind.” I holler as I step onto the wooden staircase and turn just in time to see my mother coming in with a box in her hand. My father is behind her, offering her a hand. She smiles and nods in my direction when she hears me speak before finally sauntering to the kitchen.

I proceed to the direction of my room with wandering eyes. I’m still trying to get used to our new house that I can’t help but take in the sight of every corner, of every walls, of every piece of furniture the previous occupants of our house had left behind. Usually, if a family is moving out they would take everything with them, but why did this family leave so much stuff behind? The idea made me more curious of what the previous owners were like. How big was their family? How long did they live here? Why did they move out of this house?

The furniture around are still pretty useable, and I guess mom wouldn’t be that stupid to throw away such valuable stuff even if they are already old. That would be impractical. I’m sure that she’ll clean them to bits and make use of them for a lot of things. Maybe, that’s also the reason why she agreed on buying the house. It’s not that pricey and it’s easier to fill up since several stuff are already placed in areas of the house.

I eye three doors lined up on the floor I’m in, and let my gaze land on the last door to the right. That one will be my room from now on. I’ve seen what’s inside before and unlike the whole house, that one’s the only place left a little empty. It only has a bed the previous occupant had left behind, and other than that it’s just four walls, the ceiling, the floor, and windows allowing a clear view of the street outside.

Without further delay, I saunter to the direction of my room and slowly open the door that has its rusty hinges creaking as I did, and when light finally greets me from the windows of the room, I adjust my vision to the setting—clear walls, a dusty ceiling and floor, windows that needs a lot of wiping, and the lone furniture left in the room—a bed.

I walk towards the bed, its mattress still covered by a pink sheet. The previous occupant must have been a girl since her taste on the sheets are a little bit girly. I would be surprised if a guy actually occupied this one and yet his bed sheet is pink, but then again I better not get too carried away by my thoughts or else I’d go deeper into imagining unnecessary things.

I pull the pink sheet off from the mattress and throw it to the side, pat the mattress that has puff off dust that had already collected on it somehow. I cough as my nose catches some dust and irritates the hell out of my sensitive hairs. It is so thick that I let out loud sneezes three times round before I come down to a normal state. Finally.

The bed is pushed to the wall adjacent to the windows in my room, and I’m not really fond of having an early meeting with angry sunlight in the morning, so I push it to the farthest corner of the room across from the window. It’d be a little dimmer from there and that is all that matters to me—a good sleep at night and a little bit of mercy when waking up in the morning.

I pivot from where I have been standing on and roam my eyes around my room once more, but then when my gaze falls on the cardboard box where my bed used to be, I feel a little surprised that it has been there all along. Has it been under my bed even before we occupied this house? 

“The girl who occupied this room must have left it behind.” I assume as I saunter towards the box and crouch down to see what’s inside.

I lift each flap of the dust covered box till its contents are revealed to me. At first I wasn’t able to realize what they are, but as I pick one item from among the many folds of papers inside the box, I realize that all of it are letters. Tons of letters.

“Wow.” I am so surprised to see the tons of letters filling a box like this that I let my hands touch the top of every letter. “How much time did she actually spend in writing these letters… but then why did she leave them behind anyway…” I mumble to myself.

I honestly have so much questions about the pieces of papers in front of me, but then I’m sure that no one will ever get to answer them. Why did she leave these behind? Why did she stack a pile of letters inside a box and hid it under her bed? Why didn’t she just throw them all away? Or sent them to someone if she had been meaning to? But that last thought is already too unnecessary since we’re already living in the 21st century and she could have just sent a text or email to someone.

Out of curiosity, I flip open the piece of paper as I sit myself next to the box and lean on the wall behind, not minding the fact that the floor hasn’t been swept yet and I can just get my jeans dirty from it (and later on get a nagging from my mother). I am just suddenly so curious with what these letters contain that I decided on opening this one.

Just this one. I try telling myself even though I’m not so sure either whether I’ll only be reading this piece of paper or if I’ll be crazy enough to read every letter inside the box just because I’m  getting bored. The latter can happen later, but that’s if I’m really bored.

I breathe in and finally latch my eyes at the nice handwriting on the piece of paper. Every word starts to embed in my head as I continue to read the words she had written neatly on every line.

November 15, 2010

My friend,

Today’s not the first time I have written to you, isn’t it?

While writing this, imagine me weirdly laughing at myself because I’ve been writing to you even though I know I’m just plainly talking to myself. It’s weird. Yes. But ever since dad told me to write my feelings out, having these letters and talking to you seems to work well for me. I have lesser mood swings at home, and mom doesn’t question me often because she told me how pleasant my face have turned ever since two weeks ago. She asked if I was happy today too because I had something good going on with my love life, or perhaps one of my crushes in school confessed to me, but then I told her how it wasn’t like that and I’m just happy because I am.