The Perfect Boy

Moments Captured in Time

There I was on that page. It was even dated. I must have been in early freshman year in high school.  It was like the capturing of a moment in a photograph; that specific moment when the universe stilled, when time stopped ticking just for the vision to capture every detail of what I was experiencing.  

I dared not venture to the next page. It would not do justice to Osaka to do it quickly. I wanted to relish this page as much as I could.  I stayed on it for an hour.

It was divided into four squares. Three of the squares had a sketch of me.

The first one, I was standing on the podium; it could have been one of my earliest ones giving speeches at our school. He sketched me from the left side, so he must have been sitting to my right. He picked an emotional me to be etched on that paper. The drawing of me expressed  much emotion – drive, strength, eagerness, excitement.   I remembered that day.  I could not sleep for two days preparing what I had to say and by the time I was there on the podium, after a few awkward words, I felt invincible and so sure of myself.   He was excellent at reflecting on paper what he felt, saw, heard, tasted and smelt in real life. All the surrounding was pointing to me.  There was no sound, but the sketch spoke very loudly.  I was on the spot light and he laser-beamed me, to create a life-like animated me.

The other two sketches of me showed two different emotions, one of sadness as I walked away from the pool. I was a member of the swimming team and I recollected the moment clearly as I gazed upon the sketch : that day I won the 200-meter freestyle. Yet, there was the picture of me looking moody and depressed. I didn't express that, but surely  felt it, for a good reason.   He had some sort of telepathic ability to capture what was going on within.    My water-drenched hair covered a portion of my upper face. I was drooping with both hands dropping at my side. It was a couple of weeks after the passing of my grandpa and cousin.   I did not tell a living soul, except Michelle, about the tragedy.     My grandpa Luke and cousin Arthur were never absent during my swimming meets.  That was the reason why I felt so sad. He captured the moment in time and preserved it so well, not simply what was on the surface, but from deep within.   I remembered I felt so alone.   I had nobody.  Michelle was out-of-town.  So, I stood in the sea of strangers.  Like I was in an out-of-body experience at a place where there was no sound and no vision.  There was all cheer all around me.  My team was ecstatic, my school overjoyed, but my heart was immersed in despair and unmet longing.

I never knew I was not alone.  I never knew there was somebody who was with me right then and there after all.  Someone who watched me from a distance and witnessed the encroachment of sadness at my poor heart.

The other sketch contained Michelle and I helping a boy who was bullied. His bully stood afar with clenched fists. The expression of the bully was that of pure anger. While I displayed a facial feature of concern and compassion. So, did Michelle.  My eyes were glistened with tear.  An aura of empathy and grace emanated from the picture, a perfect reflection of how we felt at the time.

I went through other pages and I kept seeing me here and there.  It took me 2 days, just to finish looking at the pages that had sketches of me. Apparently, Osaka's vision of me was not that of someone passing by; he had been a faithful witness in my life since early years in high school.   If you wanted to say he was a stalker, then I could not disagree.  But,  to me, he was more like a chronicler, one who was intimate and affectionate.   As I leafed further onto the remaining pages,  I felt an endearing emotion emerging from those pages.   Yes, Osaka was not simply a by-stander in my life, but a witness, an observer and a careful scribbler of events that happened to me.  

He didn't have to tell me - I knew how he felt about me.

Osaka was diligently chronicling who I was and what I did in and around school. He was so close and yet so far. By giving me his drawing book, Osaka was literally giving me his heart. He was laying it in the open for me to take a peek inside and in there I found priceless treasures for pure enjoyment.  I didn't know why he waited all this time to get close to me, but I was so glad he did.

I wanted him to know that by giving me his heart, it was and always would be in good hands, because knowing all his strength and his frailty, his goodness and his infirmity, his tough sides and his tender spots, I was now prepared to protect him with my life.  Osaka was not someone who lived a secluded live, he participated and excelled in a number of sports.  He earned his way to be up there and be the school jock who was swarmed by girls and wanna-bes.  And yet, he had a tender side.  

Just by looking at his drawings,  I was sure I knew now what Osaka was made of. I knew what made him laugh, what caused him to cry. I knew what gave him a booster shot, and what made him shrink under the covers of his blanket. I knew who and why he loved and I also knew who and why he hated. There was so much, much more I knew of him now than before I started leaving through his drawing book.

I closed the drawing book. It was time to give it back to him. It had been so long since we last met eye-to-eye. Next time we met, I wanted to let him know all of my insides, just as he had come undone before.

I was ready to assist Osaka in completing his image and in being the person who he was called to be.

I was ready to give all I could to Osaka.