Image from Pexel (Edited on Canva)
Damian saw Emilia standing across the street, next to the flickering light post. But when he blinked, she was gone as quick as he breathed in the dewy scent of the young night through the open window of his room.
Emilia was his neighbor a few blocks away from his bungalow. She was labeled as “the quiet one” who always smiled with her somber eyes. Her eyes reflected the enigma of how she became to be the neighborhood’s most avoided citizen.
“Look at her outfit,” a gossiper once said. “She wears old-fashioned clothing, like what most witches would wear.”
“She has a creepy smile. She smiles, but she doesn’t look like smiling,” another one said. “And her hair looks like fire. She’s certainly a witch.”
“She has a thawing gaze, but I always have chills whenever I see her,” the third one said.
Despite people gossiping about her mysterious vibe, Damian ignored the rumors of Emilia being a witch.
‘I’ll see it for myself,’ he told himself.
And so, one day, he walked towards Emilia’s house, pretending to be passing by. There he saw her, watering her roses in blooms of pink, white, and red while in her hanging brown blouse and cream, ankle-length skirt. The color of her hair warmed Damian’s heart as if he was in her embrace. Her face was as radiant as the sunburst radiating inexplicable beauty, making the fist-size organ in his chest beat erratically as if he would collapse anytime.
‘Just don’t look at me. I might lose my sanity,’ he calmed himself.
It was the first time he had seen such innocent beauty. No wonder most of the female neighbors gossiped about her. They were envious of Emilia’s good looks.
Damian walked to the window and checked for the second time in case he was seeing things, but nothing was there. Although he knew what he saw—her wavy chest-length auburn locks, and her hazel eyes—his brain wouldn’t believe it.
Their neighborhood was small, so it was easy to know what was going on because news circulated there as frequently as the sun rose and set. Everyone would even know who snored the loudest the other night and which couple had the most fights; hence, Emilia’s departure back to her hometown wasn’t spared either.
Did she really come back?
The last time Damian heard about Emilia was when she was on her way going to the airport to go back to her province for her mother’s funeral. Some said she went there to receive her inheritance because she was the sole heiress of their properties and wealth.
From what Damian knew, Emilia ran away from home because her mother forced her to marry a man she hadn’t even met.
“I wish I was that man,” he said when he heard the news.
The next night, while Damian was on his computer table, sketching Emilia’s face, he saw her again on the same spot. But that time, he didn’t hesitate to go out of his house and walk across the street—the empty street.
Disappointed, he went back to his house to find a small piece of paper on the couch in the living room.
He picked the note and unfolded it:
“You are the only friend I made since I’ve lived here. I want to pay you a visit.”
Chills ran down his spine upon seeing the letter.
He looked behind the door he had left open when he came in. No one was there, so he hurriedly shut and locked it.
He checked the kitchen and the dining area—empty!
He went back to his room and slammed his body on his bouncy bed, clutching his cottony blanket, re-reading the letter. Only one person could say those words to him—Emilia.
His mind traveled back to the time when he first saw her. The first time he laid his eyes on her, the world stopped. She was just watering her plants, but her impact on him was immense that he was glued to the ground where he stood.
“Excuse me? Do you need anything?” Emilia asked when she noticed him outside of her fences. The barriers were only as high as their shoulders, so they could see each other.
Damian was tongue-tied. He couldn’t find the words to say, especially since Emilia gave him a smile that brightened up his day.
“Hi, I’m Damian. Can we be friends?” he awkwardly said, extending his hand for a shake.
Emilia furrowed her brows, confused. But she accepted his hand.
“Sure.”
“You’re sketching her again,” Anita’s voice pulled Damian out of a trance. “And you’re spacing out, with tears? Are you seriously crying now?”
He reached for his cheeks to check if what his sister told him was true. And she was.
His cheeks were damp with salty liquid, and he scoffed.
Why did he cry?
Anita saw the piece of paper on the table.
“That’s the letter she gave you before she left, right?”
He nodded.
“How many times have you gone out for a walk with her? Many times, yet you failed to tell her how you really feel.”
Tears streamed down his cheeks again as he released poignant sobs of regret.
“She was right there tonight, last night, and the other nights,” Damian said, pointing at the streetlight outside his window.
“It wasn’t her. You know that. It was just your mind playing tricks on you. Emilia won’t be back. She died in a vehicular accident on her way to the airport, right?”
