ANGEL.

1.

"Look at him; isn't he cute? He'd make a good match with you, Angel." That's my friend Ana, always seeking attention. Any cute boy has no chance of rejecting her because she's attracted to her own kind. She has a knack for saying, "Aww, you look cute. Can we be friends?" She faces rejection at times, but her optimism towards men is unwavering. She believes they're easily swayed in dating and relationships. Alright, my name is Angel, a college student pursuing psychology. Yet, since psychology deals with the human mind and behavior, many people corner me to read their minds. Well, maybe I should educate them that psychology is more than just mind-reading. If I had the ability to read minds effortlessly, I might be in a committed relationship celebrating our anniversary. But, as they say, if wishes were horses, beggars would ride. I'm just being myself.

My past has been quite tumultuous, as is my present, I might say. My first date was with a guy I met in church, whom I'd like to call my first boyfriend. He was one of the few who showed interest in me, and that's how I got the chance. Given the opportunity, I'd compare the Angel of today to the naive sixteen-year-old girl I once was. Much has changed since then.

Back in those days, my concept of love was quite different. It was simple and superficial, devoid of any genuine feelings. Morning texts, goodnight texts, a few kisses, and talking—it was all a facade. What else could you expect from teenagers cooped up at home, watching romantic movies from those brilliant telenovela shows, all thanks to the genius of editors, producers, and actors? So, like characters in a movie, we went to parks, played games, rode horses, and took countless pictures with captions full of love. We lived like no one else could understand us. Was that love? It's a question I often ask myself, and I even laugh about it now. University was the next chapter, and while we hoped to study at the same campus, fate had different plans. The reality of long-distance hit, and it's safe to say that it's a load of nonsense. You should just live your life and tell your friends the same. That's how I lost my first boyfriend, although, funny enough, we never got intimate. It was a game of teenage infatuation, believing we'd marry each other someday. Maybe that was the realest love I've ever experienced. All we did was exchange compliments and view each other's statuses. Then, he faded into the background, until recently, when my mom mentioned he was looking for me.

My first psychology lecture was great. Finally, I made a friend named Ana. I've already mentioned that to you. However, during the second week after my first lecture, a guy walked into the class who fascinated everyone, especially the ladies. He had light brown dreadlocks that cascaded over his forehead and one side of his face, the rest neatly tied back to reveal a slick-shaved side. His half-grown sideburns were precisely aligned, making him exceptionally handsome. He sported black sweatpants and an oversized white hoodie, with black earphones dangling from the hood. I thought I was the only one ogling him, but it turns out all the girls in class were just as captivated. The lecturer had to pause his lecture to allow this male model to enter, illustrating how captivating he was.

Yes, I said "model." Aren't models supposed to be tall? He stood around 5'9" or 6'0". "Excuse me, sir, I'm sorry I'm late." Wait, we don't even apologize for being late in this class? This guy's got manners. People quickly made space for him to sit, and with all the arrogance and excitement he radiated, he chose the front row next to our somewhat domineering class representative, appointed during our first lecture. Throughout my first year, I lived in the school hostels, which were quite a distance from the lecture halls. I acted like a complete idiot when it came to the new guy, Leniey, as I later learned he was called. Every time he entered the class, I could do nothing but admire him, wishing I had a drawing book to capture his perfect face. Everything he wore seemed to fit him impeccably. On weekends, he'd wear a Lakers jersey and shorts, showcasing his muscles and veined arms. He looked flawless, and while I'd deny it if someone asked, I had a massive crush on him. Well, I wasn't alone in this; most of my course mates and many university girls felt the same. He had a busy schedule, and yes, I knew his schedule—how silly of me—but that's how it was. After class, you'd find him at the gym, on the basketball court, and recently, he asked me to help him join the school drama club. Maybe I was a little nervous, but I'm currently nursing a broken heart. His name was Elvis; I met him on the second day of the second semester. He seemed kind, principled, and trustworthy, not to mention handsome. He was tall, and perhaps I have a thing for tall guys, and above all, he loathed noise. Every time I think of him, a tear threatens to escape. It's as though a part of me left with him, and now I feel incomplete. I still remember the breakup text I sent him. Maybe I made a mistake, but how could I not, when everything with him seemed to hurt more each day? Without him, I'm a mess, and though a month has passed, the pain in my heart feels as fresh as if it were yesterday. Every laugh sounds like his laugh, and I still listen to the songs we enjoyed together. His love for old-school pop music remains etched in my soul, making me yearn for it as if we could return to the past. I knew about heartbreak before, but I never anticipated it would be this agonizing. Each day I look at my phone, hoping he'll call and say he misses me. Maybe Justin Bieber understood it when he sang "Love Yourself." I hope my heart will find peace someday, and his name will become as ordinary as my psychology notes; his laughter will no longer tug at the part of me that yearns for him. I hope he becomes a memory, nothing more than a scar on my heart. It would be a lie to say he wasn't my first love. Perhaps I could have spoken about him, but every time I do, my heart aches. I want him back—my wish—but I know that having him here would mean my misery continues. He was like embracing a burning furnace; letting go was difficult, but it was the best decision my nineteen-year-old self made. I now understand when people say that the biggest mistake a woman can make is wasting her life waiting for a man to change. They never do. A man changes for someone he genuinely cares about, and if it's not you, honey, it won't happen. That was the first lesson I learned from that relationship.