The Burnt Out Gifted Kids (Under Revision)

08: TURN OF EVENTS

APRIL 20, Monday

I couldn't believe it. Aiden had taken my poetry and shared it without my consent. I was hurt and angry, and I couldn't stand to look at him. This felt like an act of betrayal.

Why was he acting like such an asshole? He knew I wasn't ready for that kind of exposure. I was still trying to find my footing, still trying to figure out who I am as a writer. And yet, he had taken that opportunity away from me.

"Fuck, Aiden." Napayuko ako. "You are unbelievable," I spat at him, my disappointment palpable. I turned my back, ready to walk away from him for good.

Nasa pamilya na yata nila ang pagiging putangina.

But he called out to me. "Wait. Wait. I'm not done yet."

I stopped in my tracks, reluctantly turning back to face him. "Not done? Ano pa bang ginawa mo?" I asked, my tone laced with suspicion. And then he told me. I had been accepted. My heart leaped with ease, but I couldn't bring myself to thank him. Not after what he had done.

"Hindi ko alam, Aiden. Hindi ko alam." My voice was barely above a whisper. I collapsed onto the ground, playing with the sand as I tried to process everything.

"This is an opportunity to make your writing better," Aiden said, his voice softening.

I knew he was right, but it was hard to see it through. Maybe tomorrow I would be able to forgive him, but for now, all I could do was sit there and wonder how I was going to move forward.

Naramdaman ko ang pagpawis ng kamay ko at pagbilis ng tibok ng puso ko. Hindi rin ako masyadong makahinga kaya napagpasyahan ko na munang maupo. "Hindi ako magaling, Aiden. Paano kung pumalpak ako?"

"What if you will do good?"

Medyo napaisip ako sa sinabi ni Aiden.

Hinila niya ako sa magkabilang balikat bago hinarap sa kaniya. "Reina, listen to me. I know you're scared but rationally speaking, it is a good experience. Stepping out a bit, dealing with writing pressure."

The weight of my past trauma in publications suddenly crept up on me, like an unwelcome guest. Memories of my eighth-grade self came flooding back. I can still vividly recall the feeling of being laughed at by the publication adviser and the rest of the students during the selection process. The sound of their ridicule still echoes in my mind. It dealt a heavy blow to my self-confidence, and I began to hate writing. My creativity was then redirected to drawing, where I felt more comfortable expressing myself.

But here I was, years later, trying to take writing seriously once again. I wanted to prove to myself that I could do it. I had a goal to write a book before I'd graduate from college. The only problem was, I didn't know what to write about. I stopped reading creative books when I stopped writing, so I lost touch with my imagination. That was when I turned to poetry. I started small, still working on it and trying to find my rhythm.

And just as I was gaining confidence and making progress, Aiden came and trampled with my plan. It was like he didn't understand how much those poems meant to me.

I took a deep breath and tried to calm myself down before speaking. "Aiden, I'm mad. No, furious, that you invaded my privacy. It's not just writing. They are not just poems, they are a part of my soul. And you sent it to someone I don't know and without my consent."

He looked at me, confusion etched on his face. "What are you talking about?"

"My poems, Aiden. The ones I've been working on. You sent them to someone without my permission," I said, my voice shaking.

"Oh, that." Aiden shrugged. "I didn't think it was a big deal. I just wanted to show someone how talented you are."

I wanted to be glad that he had faith in me, but I couldn't. The overwhelming worry that I might not be good enough was taking over my rational thinking. "You don't understand, Aiden. Writing is not easy for me. I had a trauma in publications when I was younger, and it took me years to even consider writing again. And now you've just sent my work to someone without my consent."