The skies are grey. I look up and see how the thick rolls of clouds are persistent in covering the blue heavens. The air is humid and the chilling wind keeps the trees rustling. It is going to rain soon.

I continue to walk down this dusty road and find a familiar house, standing amidst all its brethren within this neighborhood. I stop on my tracks and stared at the house, eyeing its old, rusted mailbox. It is once painted with a delightful soft pink, but all the colors it used to have has now faded and become pale. Nobody ever bothered repainting the old mailbox.

A soft smile forms on my lips as I start reminiscing.

How long has it been?

These poems I have written of my love for you, I have been sending them for 15 years straight.

And there’s still no reply. And there’s still no reply.

The first year, I was reckless.

I rushed to my room, closed the door, ran to my desk. Took a sheet of paper and grabbed a pen. My shirt was drenched, but I didn’t care. My heart was pounding hard like a crazy melody in my ears. My hands wouldn’t stop trembling. My mind was a jumble of mess. All I could think of was you.

That was the effect of me seeing you, and because you did not see me back, because your eyes did not meet mine. I didn’t know how I would react if you looked at me in return. Perhaps I would had exploded on the spot. Seeing you was all it took to ruin my composure. And I was a well composed young man.

I uncapped the pen and started writing. My hands were still shaking. Still dripping wet. Heart still pounding. Mind still messy. But I knew what to write.

I wrote and wrote my words, rushed as it is, until they formed into lines and formed into stanzas, until it took its final form as a poem, I wrote. But my woven words were the same as my state of my mind, scattered and disarrayed. I wrote this piece of literature for you, and yet at that moment, I still had not found the beauty behind weaving the words in poetry.

There was not one single day where I failed to write a poem for you. All I could think of was to write, write, and write these poems, tucking them in their envelopes and sending them towards your house. I couldn’t put you out of my head even once. My mind would always fly over those sheets of literature that were on their way to your hands.

The second year, I was still reckless.

My thoughts hadn’t move on from you. My love I endlessly poured onto my poems. Compared to the first year, I had improved a lot on the way I expressed myself through this form of writing. Yes. This had then been a part of me. Every single time I wrote, I gathered every corner of my concentration to construct the right set of words that expressed how I love you.

Once, I was too focused on writing that I became inattentive about my surroundings. My house setting ablaze wouldn’t even catch my attention. But I was fortunate. My neighbor saw the fire and alerted me at once. I was very grateful towards my neighbor. Although the damage the fire had done to my house was not at all small, at least, my poems were unscathed and could be delivered safely to you.

On the third year, I calmed down.

Writing this much, I realized that there was no reason for me to be acting in such a haste. I wrote my poems comfortably. Perhaps time had eased me, soothed me, because the next time I wrote, my mind was free from its former mess. Yes. It was no longer tangled and jumbled. When I wrote, the words now flowed like a clear river. I had already found the beauty in writing. I’d already reached the limits of literature.

I looked at my computer, and an idea popped into my mind. That was the first time I posted my poem in the internet. But perhaps I overdid it. I posted too much poems in such a short time that my computer broke down in stress.

This incident, however, inspired me with an idea.

In the fourth year, I wrote for a magazine.

At first, I was just playing around. The extra pocket money I got from doing this was very useful. It was only a part time job, however, as I worked as a salary man. I would had never expected that my poems would lead into such a huge success. My eyes widened in surprise as, one day, I saw the news on TV that was reviewing about my poems. That led me to another huge decision: I released my poem compilations and quitted my current job.

These poems I have written of my love for you, I have been sending them for 15 years straight.

And there’s still no reply. And there’s still no reply.

By the fifth year, I was a professional poet.

A famous saying said that if one had their hobby as their job, then he would be very lucky, because a hobby for a job could not be considered as working. In my case, I did not give a care to such saying. Writing these poems for you, as I said, was a part of me. To call it a mere hobby was an understatement. It was not my hobby to write poems for you, because to me, doing this was the same as breathing, and it was not right to call breathing as a hobby, was it? We breathe to stay alive. Writing these poems kept me alive. This was a matter far exceeding a mere hobby.

I became famous with my poems. Women of all sorts were attracted to me, captivated by the words I had written for you, and for you only. Women of all sorts tried to attract me, but towards none of them did I get attracted. I love you. I love you earnestly. And I’ve realized that I love you since a long time ago.

By the sixth year, my body was ruined.

I did not know what came into me, but I became reckless again, and paid no heed to my body. The only thing in my mind was to write, write, write, and write for you. Because of that, I have fallen sick. And even so I kept on writing. When one was determined, he would keep on writing despite his conditions.

I realized that my writings were best when I am healthy, and that their quality declined when I was sick. That motivated me to take care of my health. I didn’t want to make you worry. I didn’t want you to be troubled when you realize that my writing had worsened because of my failing health. I wanted to give you what was best of me.

In the seventh year, I was in perfect form.

I have regained my health, and I kept on writing ever so earnestly. I would like to dedicate this good health to writing for you. My days haven’t changed as I kept on writing and writing, expressing my love through the words woven together into a poem. This time, I made a resolution in my mind: I would stay healthy like this, and in my perfect condition, write the perfect poems that was only suitable for someone like you.

In the eight year, I didn’t change. I was still in perfect condition. And I could only wish that that condition would stay the same.

In the ninth year, I got an accident.

A blur. Flashes of images. And then the darkness, swallowing it all. I woke up. Everything was white—until my eyes got adjusted to the light, and what I saw was a room that existed in hospitals.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

That sound repeated softly in this quite room, almost sounding like a lullaby. My eyes were heavy, and I had to force them open. At first I didn’t know where I was, how I got here. I was in a daze. My mind was empty. I tried to get up, but a sharp pain in my head prevented me. I fell back onto the white bed.

I looked up at the ceilings, my mind as blank as a white sheet of paper, as white as the ceilings itself. I let the silence envelope me at that moment as I tried to recall what had happened. But even then it was plain to see. I had suffered a hard blow on my head.

Dread washed upon me at once when I realized: I don’t know who I am.

Ever so delicately, I ran my fingers over my wooden desk. Its touch was cold, being abandoned by its master for a couple of days because he had to stay in the hospital. But I was now dismissed, allowed to return to my own dwellings, my own environment. They said that this would help me regain my memories. Yes. My memories, all of them, lost.

I have learned that I worked as a poet. The people in the hospital had informed me about that. They gave me copies of the poem compilations I had supposedly written. I was planning to read them once I got here—home.

Home had an intriguing aura. When I first opened the door, the first thing that welcomed me was the unique scent of papers. Somehow, the smell comforted me. Somehow, they convinced me that I belonged here. I stepped inside and was immediately greeted by reams of papers, scattered all about the floor like a catastrophe. A quick glance and I knew that these were poems, most likely written by me. I was caught by surprise. Had I always been this messy? Even so, I had no intention to clean these papers. I let them be, scattered around. It felt right that way. I didn’t even know why.

I started reading my poems. I read from the old magazines the hospital had given me, read from the copies of my poem compilations, and read from all the papers scattered about. I read and observed the words I have once written. All of them. I felt a tight feeling in my chest, a heart strained in its effort to keep beating, but I did not know what they meant. I did not know what I felt.

After so much time I spent on reading, I had finally finished running through all my poems, or at least all my poems that I could find, and that was after three whole days worth of reading without any other sort of activities (except eating and sleeping. I forgot to bathe, I think).

I sat on my desk, meditating. On it was a white sheet of paper, yet to be filled, and on my hand was a single pen. My heart raced for unknown reasons, my hands trembled in uncertainty. A strange feeling running inside of me, and a cold grip on my chest. I was yet to understand.

And then, I placed down my pen on the paper and started to write.

The words flowed; my hands moving on its own. It felt so natural, it felt so effortless. Words I did not think of before appeared in my head, poured out through my hands and through my pen onto the sheets of paper. What was blank was immediately filled with words. Words from my head, words from my heart.

My aching heart.

As I wrote, the grip on my chest tightened, the feelings running wild. I then understood what it was. Realization dawned onto me. A piece of memory returning to my heart: though I’d forgotten my own name, I remembered only that I love you. You, who I did not even remember. An irony. A curious memory.

Everyday I spent with writing poems. But even through the tenth year, through the eleventh year, my memories did not return. And yet, I loved you. All I could want was your reply.

These poems I have written of my love for you, I have been sending them for 15 years straight.

And there’s still no reply. And there’s still no reply.

Through the twelfth year, through the thirteenth year, my memories didn’t return. But I still loved you. That was all I had.

The fourteenth year had come, and even then, I still not had my memories returned. I was confused, I didn’t understand. I kept on writing and writing, waiting for your reply. I had counted; I had been sending them for fourteen years now. So why? Who are you? Where are you? If I followed the address that would lead me to your house, and if I met you in person, would you reply to me? Would you finally reply to me?

I was frightened. I was drenched in anxiety, in uneasiness. Did you hate me? Could it be that all these times, my poems had been disturbing you? If I came to see you, would you be happy to see me? Would you be terrified instead? Should I stop writing these poems? Should I stop? Should I?

All I wanted was just a glimpse at you, a word to you. But perhaps, even those simple things might be a wrongdoing on my side.

Even so, I loved you, and that was all I knew. So I continued writing, even when I was kept on being disturbed by my own uncertainties, anxiety, fears, worries, and uneasiness.

I was messed up. Everything was messed up. Everything! I was afraid. Every single day, I was afraid. I was afraid of what I didn’t know. I was afraid of knowing what I didn’t know. And I was afraid of stopping on writing my poems.

I didn’t want to stop writing.

I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to.

I didn’t want to, because I love you.

Because I love you, and that was all I remembered.

It was on the fifteenth year.

My memories returned—all of them.

I remembered everything, and everything became clear.

I remembered everything, and when I did, I fell to the ground and burst into tears.

Because I remembered… that you died fifteen years ago.

I approach the old mailbox, the memories of you swimming in my head. From my bag, I take out a few sheets of paper, and insert it through its hole.

I smile.

I remember everything now. I remember who you are, and how we used to be together. I look up and stare at the old house—your old house. I gaze the old room situated on the second floor, facing out onto the road. That was your old room.

This house is now empty.

Every year, on this very same day when you went away into your deep slumber, I would always travel to your house to deliver these poems by hand. Yes. I still write poems, because I am earnest, and I am determined to show it.

It is not a matter of not being able to move on. Moving on is something I will do, something I must do. But even then, when I have moved on, I will continue to write for you.

This house is now empty. But its mailbox will never be—until the day I could no longer write—it will never be empty.

These poems I have written of my love for you, I’ve been sending them for 16 years straight.

And there’s still no reply.

And there’s still no reply.

A/N: Once again, the plot is not my original idea, but is based on the song “A Clingy Boy Sticking for 15 Years”. I just tried to portray the song in my own way, and JREEENG (this is a sound effect) this fic was born!

I truly praise whoever made the plot and wrote the lyrics. When I watched the music video, I was left speechless in the end. It started out funny, but the ending totally surprised me.

You should watch it. I recommend it.

The melody is misleading. It sounded fun and cheerful, and if you only judge it by the melody, then you totally wouldn’t expect the ending.

I find the plot beautiful.

And now that you’ve know what happened to the girl he loved, try scrolling up and read from the first year once again. You might discover something interesting, because I did when I replayed the song and reread the lyrics.

Last but not least, thank you so much for reading this and I’m so sorry for any mistakes I have done.

p.s Here’s the link to the song. Make sure you can see the subtitles! X9

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GdSUMFi5FYE

WATCH IT! AND MAKE SURE THE SUBS APPEAR!  8D