The Lost Words of Celia

by Mak Atha
THE UNSMILING TEACHER
They were both teachers, they nurture minds of the youth and yet on different grounds.
Both were young and new to teaching. She teaches Mathematics, dealing with cold
numbers, fixed formulas, concrete answers, and absolute facts. She abides by the rules
that the world follows. He teaches Literature, drowning his students with beauty of
words, the music of rhymes, the conversion of emotions into lines. He takes a piece of
the world and molds it into what his heart desires.
It was after the classes were done and most of the students were gone, that he
approached her and walked beside her as she was walking past the hallway.
He hesitated first, and then managed a friendly "Hello."
She looked at him for a second, and then straight ahead.
"Hi." her tone was flat, a hundred and eighty degree angle.
For all the months he'd been teaching here, he never saw her smile. He always saw her
serious face but it was enough to see her charm and beauty. However, the children had
dubbed her one of their terror teachers.
"Ms. Ellyza right?"
"And you are?" she asked back.
"I'm Michael, Michael Gil. I teach literature."
For a moment, a singularity of a second, she looked at him. He looked back, looking for
that smallest hint of recognition from her eyes but found none. The next second she
was looking straight ahead again, keeping her pace.
"Nice to meet you." Her voice still flat, she kept on walking. He stopped his steps.
***
A slip of paper was placed inside the drawer of her table the next morning. She knew it
wasn't from one of her students, the handwriting was too perfect. She read it:
Hey, don't forget to smile. One smile can
lessen the loneliness in this world.
But her face didn't move, she just stared at the piece of paper as if she was just
checking her receipt in her grocery.
She folded it and placed it inside the hidden pocket of her skirt.
"Okay class, let's begin..."
***
THE DANCE
Sunday came and she entered the same coffee shop where he was having his morning
coffee. In front of him was his journal, jotting down thoughts that run wild or those which
float calmly inside his mind.
He saw her, stopped short from writing, and watched her sit in one corner. Her hair was
up in a ponytail, her eyeglasses making her eyes a bit rounder, and she wore a gray
cardigan over her light blue dress. She's so beautiful, he thought. He could think of a
hundred words that would describe her and yet none would suffice. He gathered up his
courage along with his things and moved to her table. He smiled. She didn't.
"Are you following me?" she asked, more annoyed than surprised.
"No. I was sitting back there then I saw you enter. I thought you might like someone to
talk to. You know, exchange views in teaching.." his curt smile was never fading
contrary to hers.
"Do you like me?" she asked, the question came out all of a sudden that he didn't have
much time to think. Her face was stone, as if it was a question addressed to her student
whether he did his assignment or not.
"I think you're beautiful." he managed to answer, sincerely. "More beautiful than those
I've met before."
"You all say that." she smiled finally, but it was more of a smile when you see something
silly. He didn't like that, that first smile she gave him.
"I.. Uhh..." Think of something, he told himself. "I like that."
He somehow regained the smile he almost lost.
"Like.. what?"
"I like the way you asked me that question, so direct, as if you're still in Math class." he
chuckled.
Her eyes narrowed, not knowing what his point is, but before she could reply his words
were out again.
"I like your eyes now that I see them closely," he continued staring back at her, boring
into her soul through those windows he just spoke of. "They're like two deep wells
casting out anyone who wants to swim in them."
He could feel that she was trying hard not to flinch.
"But now that I look at them, someone within close range can't do anything but drown in
those eyes of yours."
"I don't like you." she said after a short pause. "the way you use those flowery words..."
"I couldn't help it, whenever I'm inspired they just bloom."
She didn't budge. The walls around her were still solid and high. No trespasser could
get inside.
"Do you like me?" he asked with a playful grin.
"I just said I didn't like you."
"Not a bit?"
"No."
"Will you ever like me?"
"Small chance."
"How small?"
"Smaller than one percent. Maybe 0.1%?"
"You gave me a number, I'll make that a word, I'll call it hope."
And she smiled, impressed.
There, at that moment, started a dance between them. A game of It, not knowing whose
game it is.
Every Sunday meant a tricky conversation with him at the coffee shop, every weekday
morning meant a piece of paper inside her drawer. Day by day the words got deeper
into her. One morning, she didn't realize she was smiling like a child in front of her class.
"Uhh.. So.. Let's begin."
Falling for someone takes time, and so he waited. He was patient, he knew how
delicate that dance was. Soon, it paid off. It bloomed like his garden of words. That
feeling between them, the force that's pulling them closer to each other, that's love. She
denied it at first but Cupid's arrow got deeper in her chest that she finally surrendered.
Her 0.1 percent possibility of liking him surpassed a hundred percent.
"I love you." she said, her heart raced. The walls were down, brick by brick he had
broken them down.
"I love you." he said. He didn't expect he'd succeed after that first day he talked to her.
She wasn't even friendly. "I thought I'd never hear that from you."
His heart was floating.
"I love you." she repeated and gave him that sweet smile of hers.
I thought I lost you. He wanted to tell her, but it was a secret he should keep to himself.
Instead, he kissed her and thanked God for the moment.
***
THE LONELY BOY AND THE GIRL WHO LOVED WORDS
Once there was a lonely boy, his parents both worked at different offices. They were too
busy to give him enough attention. At school, it was the same. He'd have a hard time
making friends and in the end, he couldn't keep any one of them. His presence was just
so… gray.
He became that sad kid at school, always all by himself. Bullied at times.
Until one afternoon that changed everything, changed him. He was sitting under a tree
on the school grounds, still lonely, then a voice spoke to the lonely boy:
"One smile can lessen the loneliness of this world, did you know?"
And there she was, so bubbly and bright, smiling at him with a journal on her hand.
"Hi, I'm Celia." she offered him her free hand, all smiles.
"Uhm.. I-I'm Michael. Just.. just call me Mikee." he fidgeted awkwardly and finally shook
her hand, which was soft and a little small, he observed.
She hopped and sat down beside him, "I think people shouldn't be lonely." she said,
pouting. "I'm kind of lonely, my classmates think I'm weird. I guess most writers are
thought to be weird people." she was talking more to herself than to him. "Here, let me
read you one of my stories."
And there she opened up her journal and started reading.
That was the seed of their friendship, that day by day would grow. They discovered they
live near each other. She met his parents, he met hers, and their parents met each
other. He wasn't lonely anymore, she filled him with her talent for words. She wrote
poems and stories that honestly he found impressive, like they were written by
experienced writers. The words danced through his ears, opened up his mind, and
comforted his heart. She loved words after all, her passion was writing them, her
mission was to put them to their rightful place, the place where they belong.
The boy then knew where he belonged, to the girl who weaves stories and poems with
words as her raw materials and her mind as the machine.
"Do you know what I like most about poems?" she asked him as they lay down on the
roof of the boy's house one evening, they were watching the stars.
"What do you like most about poems?" he asked, his time with her made him a bit
talkative, so he asked her in a complete question.
"They can turn pain into beauty."
The boy was quiet, he liked what she said. He liked every bit of thought that had gone
through her mind and told him. He didn't know that the bulb above her head would soon
fade out.
***
LOST LINES
They were on their first year in highschool when it happened. Her father learned that her
mother was having an affair. He went berserk, his sanity was driven out by the broken
trust and love between him and his wife. That night, their fight went too far, his anger
was too much. In front of his daughter, he shot his wife. Five bullets pierced through
her, two bullets struck her heart. After that, her father shot himself in the brain.
She saw it all, the blood, the fear, the anger, hate, death, and pain. And then she saw
nothing, and it engulfed her.
He found her at the hospital room, she was attended by a doctor and a nurse. A man
and a woman were also in the room.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, her eyes staring straight ahead, staring at stale air, the
doctor was asking her questions.
"Celia, can you speak?"
Nothing.
"Do you know where you are Celia?"
Nothing.
It went like that for a while but nothing came out of her mouth. It hurt him, watching her
silence as if her imagination had stopped and her voice had been blocked by the
horrors that reality shoved into her eyes.
Death.
Mom. Dad. Death.
The next time she woke up from her sleep, she can't remember anything. Not even him.
Not even herself.
***
"She's having traumatic amnesia. Her subconscious is trying to protect her from the
traumatic stress she experienced when she witnessed her parents' death. Her
subconscious does that by forgetting."
The doctor explained to the man and woman.
"What should we do Doctor?" the woman asked.
"My advice would be… let her be. Do not force her to remember the things she had
seen, her mind have become too fragile. I understand that you're the closest relative
and pretty soon you'll be adopting her, I say she's still young, she can still have a new
life with you. You can introduce yourselves to her as her parents, of course you'll take
her to where you live, it is better if she wouldn't encounter anything from her past."
"How about me?"
They turned to the boy. He hadn't slept much after everything that happened.
"Who are you?" the doctor asked.
"Her friend."
The doctor put his hand on the boy's shoulder.
"Her friend hm?" the doctor smiled, trying to be friendly. "Do you want your friend to
recover?"
The boy was avoiding eye contact.
"Yes…"
"Her mind might respond violently if she saw something or someone that reminded her
of the past."
"So you're saying… let her forget me?"
"I'm sorry young man."
But she's my friend, he wanted to protest, she's my only friend.
***
NUMBERS
She once loved words, the nouns and adjectives and verbs that told about the places
her imagination had brought her. There were no limits but the ink of her pen and the
pages of her journal. She had wonderful thoughts and ideas, the bulb above her head
so close to bursting. She would write them down and then read to him. Her lovely words
where he found comfort. Her various tales and intricate poems. She taught him how to
love literature, and at such a young age, he learned to love her too.
But the nightmare took those moments away from her. The monster was forced inside
its prison, bringing with it all she had lived for. Her memories.
She started over again-new home, new life, new name. She became Ellyza.
She became a serious girl, losing her bubbly and joyful character. Her passion for words
were gone as well.
She didn't like words anymore, words that once were the core of her identity. Letters
that let her speak the language of her heart were set aside for some reason she didn't
understand. She didn't know why she couldn't write a poem when their teacher told
them to. She didn't know why she hated writing essays. As if her mind closes when she
forces herself to write something creative and knocking on its closed doors only
annoyed her. So instead of the words and letters that once let her speak her heart out,
she found comfort in numbers.
Numbers numb her. They were her painkillers from the feeling of emptiness in her heart.
She didn't even know where the feeling came from, but to her, numbers give the best
company during her solitude. They were easy to deal with, just follow the formula, follow
the rules. She didn't have to force her mind to do something it couldn't, to drink in the
complexity of writing. She wanted to use her logic rather than her emotions, which were
hard for her to express.
She grew up that way.
The night her parents died, it didn't just take two lives, it took three.
***
Giving up on her was unacceptable. He continued his life without her, but he promised
himself he would find her and make her love the words again. He studied literature, her
talent he tried to achieve by hardwork. His trashbin was always piled with crumpled
paper containing his half written stories and unfinished poems, realizing his ideas were
lame at the midst of his writing. Over and over, that was the cycle until his skills
improved. He'd learned enough and he graduated. He was free. He retraced her steps
that day she was taken away and finally, he found her.
***
FINALLY
I am given another chance. He told himself as he held her in his arms. I'll never let you
go, never again in my life. He planted a kiss into her forehead, it touched her soul. He
was amazed by the way she's smiling, like a piece of the clouds made up in Heaven.
Their hands touched, held, completing the gaps they were born with. It filled up the
emptiness in her heart, it filled up his longing- for her smile, her eyes, her company, her
words…
It might take some time for her to appreciate words again but he knew the wait will all be
worth it. Whenever he misses the younger version of her, he'll just do what he had been
doing all those years: open up her journal he had kept after the incident and reread her
stories and poems, hearing her young voice as he read them.
No matter how much he wanted her to be her old self again, he knew better not to
disturb the memories locked somewhere inside her head. He didn't want her to look
back at that horrible past, he didn't want her to be that thirteen year old girl again,
staring at the corpses of her parents.
She experienced a most horrifying past and he faced tremendous guilt after that. That is
why he's trying hard to fix her, to fix what he did.
He could still remember the day he got home early from school. He got inside the house
expecting himself to be alone and then he saw them, his father and Celia's mother on
the couch, their lips pressed onto each other.
They didn't see him, didn't hear him. He ran away as fast as he could and found himself
in front of Celia's house.
Yes, it was him who told her father, it was him who started it all.