Last night, I re-read the short story Firefly on Haruki Murakami’s Blind Willow, Sleeping Woman.

See, last year, this book was in the hands of someone I really care for. I sent him the book to where he was, exactly 1,870 miles away from here in the Philippines. I cannot tell him exactly how I felt that time and that was one of the few times that words failed me. Instead, I let the story speak on my behalf. I told him specifically to read Firefly to give him an idea how I felt (and still feel) towards him and our situation. Last Saturday, his sister (who is my bestfriend) gave me back the book.

In the entire story, I underlined this single line: Someday, somewhere in this precarious world, if we meet again, I hope I’ll be able to tell you much more than this.

That is exactly how I felt. That there are a lot of words left unsaid, wider than the great expanse between here and Japan. I fell asleep, with me holding the book, thinking that somehow, his hands traced the exact same pages I held in my hands last night.