Some of my close friends often label me as someone with great words. That even though I knew to myself that cheering people up is an awkward situation for me, they say I’m good at it.
I often spend an all-nighter reading or listening to my friends’ rants through chats or voice messages. Asking them if they want me to just listen or give some of my viewpoints after.
I’m never a fan of sugarcoating, but I know when and where to insert my stance. I don’t want to provoke someone in times that all they wanted was to be heard.
But when I do share my notion, it’s highly outspoken. No pauses. No lapses. I knew to myself that in order to let people know their slipups, I need to slap certainties onto their faces.
And when I cheer people up, it’s all genuine, all from the heart. I am always the person who sees everyone’s potential. I see alacrity in everyone.
I see you. I hear you.
Feels good to hear, right? I wish I could hear those.
Sometimes, in order to feel good about myself, I reread everything I said to everyone I once had a meaningful conversation with. Sometimes, I recall these personal interactions, picturing me being told with those words. Sometimes, I get a piece of paper and write everything I wanted to hear, read it, and hope that someday, I can hear those words, from someone genuine as me.
When the clock strikes 12 or 3, I read the things I wrote or typed in a conversation, on my notes app, and even at the back of my unused school notebooks.
I wade through every word carefully. Hoping to feel something, fondling with my own arms and slowly tapping my back after — as if I’m being hugged and comforted by someone.
This is what keeps me going. These words tide me over. My words tide me over.
