How wrong was I to think that I could relish some semblance of peace and tranquility, away from the irksome cares of the world! I deem complete and peaceful seclusion necessary for nursing a weary, weary heart; alas! it all came to a precipitous end just recently by Stella who, like a rousing spectre emerging from the dark graves of years ancient, came unannounced to torment me. Her artless message came one uneventful evening, comprising only of a few words, and asking me how I was. Ha! Indeed. This unexpected attempt at establishing contact between us, which has long since been violently rended due to heated exchanges in the past, surprised me to the extent that my eyes nearly detached themselves from their sockets upon seeing her unmistakable words, ended by the familiar 'alias of affection'.

I suppose I could have ignored the aforementioned message, have I known the onslaught that lay within its wake, and it would have been the end of it. However, no matter how intent and resolute I am in forgetting her and putting our past behind me, incredible as it may seem, I simply could not help myself. Like an unfortunate mariner lured in by the seductive songs of sirens, I find myself powerless to resist the temptations of having the pleasure of conversation with her, my 'worthy foe', once more. Thus, eventually, I give in to my weakness and replied to her inquiry with wary congeniality. Technology afforded the means of communication between her, sitting comfortably in Singapore, and I, squatting in the humidity of a backwater country. We chat for long hours (often at the expense of my household chores), until our eyes become inflamed or finally succumbing to the pangs of hunger.

We talk of past and present undertakings, of future plans, of old dreams and aspirations, of trivial things (but leaving out that dark stain that was the antecedent to our previous virulent severance). We talk and laugh as though we have never been apart or imbittered. Familiar emotions flow through me. I wince at all the throes and pains I once felt during my three years-long crusade of purging her from my heart and thoughts; yet, also astoundingly elated, even happy, like a giddy boy holding in secret an infatuation for a pretty, more giddy girl. As I have predicted, long extinguished embers begin to glow anew into life and threaten to wholly devour me into their flaming mouths. Although I could not be faulted for feeling emotions that she has unintentionally stirred (for she is, as she said, 'charming'), it is , I agree, rather misplaced and inappropriate - for her precious heart belongs to someone else.

Do you see now my bourgeoning predicament? That fact, an afflicting disappointment (nothing short of a spear through one's heart) as it was, doesn't appear to affect my feelings at all, strangely enough. I came to realize that her recent efforts in re-establishing friendly interactions may not be for purposes of romance (foolish wretch!) but perhaps rooted upon a realization, as I have, that we were friends before we were lovers, and that friendship in itself, after all is said and done, is too precious to be allowed to die. I might be inclined to believe it, indeed I must, had it not been for an entry in her blog, curiously entitled 'P.S. I'm Still Not Over You', containing a suspicous undertone to the contrary. Or is it? I guess I shall never know her true feelings or intentions, and neither will she of mine, for, ruled by pride and gentility, I am steadfast in that the stupid sentiments, which I may have lately developed, remain unvoiced and undeclared - for the sake of us both.

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Mon amour, je t'attendrai toute ma vie.