I know this girl from a previous memory long forgotten. Her mousy hair was short then, a delicate bob with bangs that complemented her features. Her doe eyes were brown, I think, or was it the light? I can't clearly remember. All I know is that we were classmates in elementary. She's the typical flower on the wall, one of those girls you didn't care looking twice at.
Eight or so years later, I saw her on a store near our college. Much has changed since I last remembered seeing her. She's taller now. Her hair longer, but with the same bangs that stapled her in my memory. Her eyes were still the same color I couldn't recognize, but they're different. They were sad, insecure, defeated. Her hands were calloused from years of toil as a working student and a student helper. The little bruises and dents on her fingers all testify to how hard life had been on her.
We're classmates now-again, after those rudimentary years. Sometimes when I look at her, I can't help but pity. I wanted to tell her that everything she does is a stepping stone to her future. Every drip of sweat, every drip of blood, are sacrifices one must make to achieve success in life and that maybe she has greater sacrifices because she will have greater victories.
I wanted to tell her. I want to tell her. But I didn't.
. . . . .
She remembers me for she smiles when I look at her. I smile back with a silent prayer in my head. For her, for Senelfa.