straight from the tortured poets department version 1.0 (rojie’s version)

LINK: straight from the tortured poets department version 1.0 (rojie’s version)

Currently listening to: The Tortured Poets Department – Taylor Swif

I laughed in your face and said,
“You’re not Dylan Thomas, I’m not Patti Smith
This ain’t the Chelsea Hotel, we’re modern idiots”

As the camera snapped to take this picture, a fleeting thought went through my head.  “This is the beginning of the end.”  It was as if time paused.  The smile on my face was genuine, yet there was a hint of sadness in my eyes.  This single photograph, preserved in time, became a poignant symbol of our relationship’s trajectory.

The photograph was taken on a chilly autumn afternoon, when the sun’s rays filtered through the amber leaves, casting a warm glow on everything it touched.

From the moment we met, it was evident that his fascination with languages were more than a mere hobby.  His major was in English and he studied abroad and worked in Japan for a couple of years.  A literary genius in his own right, he possessed an almost encyclopedic knowledge of grammar, pronunciation, and etymology.  His time in Japan was transformative, where he not only honed his fluency in Japanese but also deepened his understanding of cultural nuances and linguistic subtleties.  This made it easier for us to connect since Japanese and Koreans have many similarities culturally.

To me, he was a maestro of the classics.  His extensive library of books was beautiful and intimidating to me.  I remember stepping foot into his library and being in complete awe.  I’ve never been in a space like this before, being enveloped by new and old books… paperbacks and hardcovers.  Rows and rows… walls and walls of books.  The books I had at home were nothing like his.  He had several first and second edition collectibles.  Most of the books I read were borrowed from the library or from friends.  I, on the other hand, barely had enough books to fill a bookcase, let alone a biblioteca.

He would gently point out a mispronounced word or subtly correct the grammar on my blog and while his intentions were undoubtedly to assist in refining my language skills, these interventions often felt like a stark reminder of his superior command of languages.  There were moments when these corrections, though well-meaning, felt overwhelming, casting a shadow over our conversations and making me acutely aware of my imperfections.  Often times, I would give him the side eye, not because I was upset with him but more annoyed with myself for not catching these mistakes prior to having him to proofread.  He, in return, would smile back and the small indentation on his left cheek would appear.  Damn that fucking dimple.  To my defense, English is my second language…I am trilingual…and I was attempting to learn (more) Japanese because of him, which was not an easy feat.

If I had not seen him in person, I would have thought he was Japanese because of his mannerisms.  The moment I laid eyes on him, one particular feature immediately drew my attention: his eyes. He possessed a pair of strikingly different colored eyes—one green and the other hazel. This unique attribute set him apart from anyone I had ever met before and created a captivating presence that was hard to ignore.  There were numerous occasions when he would find me gazing into his eyes. How could I not?  They were stunning.  I cannot tell you how many times I’ve heard women tell him that his eyes were mesmerizing.  As far as his other physical attributes, he stood a smidge over six feet, had a sculpted build from boxing and ever so agile, soft-spoken voice, and he had a prominent nose.

I recognized that this would inevitably be my undoing. God help me…

…to be continued…