I look around from my table. Everybody’s having a great time. Except for me.

I’m waiting for someone. And when he does, I’m going to ask him: why?

The class is crowded with students, having fun for their last day of school. I’m in my senior year, and today, finally, we’re getting out of this place, and enjoy the college life. I’ve dreamed of this day ever since I was a freshman. I just couldn’t stand the pressure – harder subjects, harsher teachers, tougher bullies. I’m not exactly the most popular girl at school, and because of my wimpiness, bullies often get on me just for the sake of it. I’ve always hated it, and tried my best to ignore everything else and just concentrate on my studies so that I could get into a good college, ask for whatever I want (photography, of course) and do whatever I want, since I have such good grades and get a scholarship, if possible. That’s the best that could happen.

But in my purpose of ‘concentrating on one thing’, somehow my friend got me to go for the Winter Dance on sophomore year. A film of memories that were kept a few drawers behind my brain was running through my head. That night, I met the best guy that I could’ve ever dreamt of.

His hair was messy and mousse, his eyes greenish grey, and his smile the most adorable I’ve ever seen. He was incredibly tall, maybe 6’10’’, but I’m quite tall myself, 5’11’’. He wasn’t the handsomest boy I saw that night, but the one that I was most attracted to. He seemed to be eyeing me too. Then, when I was chatting with my friends, he came up and asked me if I would like to dance. I smiled and accepted it gratefully. My friends winked at me, showing that I should hook up with him, but I don’t do that. In fact, I’m not even sure if I should be in a relationship.

He danced clumsily, and he isn’t exactly the most charming of all male I’ve ever met, but he sure took my heart. That night, I was sure that he was the one.

But that was that night. Now I’m not so sure. He’s right in front of my eyes as I wake up from that flashback. He’s face was as serious as mine, and I’m sure that this is no time for jokes or silly wits. We had to talk.

He grabbed the nearest chair he could find and turned it in a position so that he could sit and talk to me, eye to eye. “I’m sorry.”

I remember that same voice, that same please-oh-please-forgive-me tune that I heard last night through the phone, when he told me he had to move to Arizona with his grandparents after graduation to help them out with the falling family farm business. I couldn’t discuss it through the phone so I told him I’d talk to him tomorrow and hung up. That tomorrow would be today. Now.

I looked into his eyes. “Are you sure your parents can’t find somebody else, maybe a cousin?”

“Well, it’s still not confirmed but for now, I’m the only one who haven’t planned further studying.” He pushes his hair to the back, and I can see his pale skin. He was pure Manhattan, if it wasn’t for his Arizona-born father. He obviously didn’t get the tan, but the eyes were the same. I looked away. I couldn’t handle this. It’s too much. I remember our kiss on the first date – it was gentle and sweet, no pressure. I wish we could have that now, so that all our worries will go away.

I push away all the planning – we move in together, I study photography and work part-time at McDonalds and he studies architecture. I don’t know why he still hasn’t broken it to his parents that he wants to do something other than inheriting the family’s farm.

“You have to tell them,” I said, with a little force put into it. “You have to tell them you want to take architecture.”