This morning, when I entered in my Fil 14 classroom at CTC 301, I flinched. It was an inferno. I was already sweaty and hot from walking from Berchmans and climbing four flights of stairs, and this classroom never really offered me comfort and rest from the blistering heat of the season. I noticed that our professor, Mr. Devilles, was quite early, as he always entered the room at exactly 9 in the morning. He was wearing a black polo and was wearing a weary expression on his face. I didn't really mind, since I thought that he may be also pissed off with the heat, or maybe he was thinking of how bad it was choosing to wear a black polo on this kind of weather. I went to my seat and immediately took out my fan and started to wave it vigorously in front of my face. The cool air did nothing to ease the heat that was hanging onto my skin like a film. I felt the sweat trickle down by back and my chest, and it was the most irritable feeling in the world. I cursed under my breath. Then, the second bell rang.

Mr. Devilles asked us to bring out a half sheet of paper for our daily quiz (I know you also do this in your Fil 12 class too). After we passed our papers, he said that he would announce something very important. A student of his just died last Saturday of Dengue fever.

It was you.

Mr. Devilles then proceeded to read an essay he wrote about you---how he knew you as a responsible beadle in your Fil 12 class and how they never really thanked you for all your efforts and sacrifices.

As Mr. Devilles was reading his essay, I tried to paint a picture of you in my mind. I tried to imagine what you looked like---how tall you were, what the color of your skin was and how your eyes looked like, which I then knew were chinky, according to Mr. Devilles' description. I can't help but think that maybe I even met you here in school. It could be that I have seen you in the lib, or maybe I was in line with you buying lunch in the caf. Maybe I have seen you in one of the photocopying stations here in school, or perhaps I have been in the ladies' room with you. I imagined that you were beautiful and graceful. But now you're gone, and I will never ever know if I really met you or not.

Then I felt my eyes sting. If it was because of the draft that was coming from the open windows, I can't be certain, but all I knew was I felt a deep pang of emptiness in my chest. I inhaled, and it was painful. Ellie, it felt like the air was hollowing me out, like it was emptying me of pulp like a pumpkin being carved for halloween. I closed my eyes and bit my lip. I tried to scream in my head, but I could hear were incoherent and indecipherable echoes. I shuddered and I realized that it was always the sensation when I wanted to cry. I closed my eyes and held the tears back.

Forgive me, Ellie...but the truth is I wanted to cry not because of your death. I felt this emptiness not because I knew of the implications that your departure may have on your parents, siblings, friends and acquaintances. No.

We were all taught that we shouldn't mourn and cry for the dead, because naturally dying is such a sweet thing, for it frees you from the clutches of the world---from all its goodness and evils, from all its beauty and ugliness. You know what, Ellie, I wanted to cry because I envy you. I envy you because you are now freed from this earth, from your body which is corruptible. I envy you because you have been taken out of this pig sty, which others worship and regard as their heaven. I envy you because you have no more deadlines to meet, no more tests to take and no more things to frown about. You will feel no more fatigue, sickness, dirt, corruption, suppression, oppression and judgment. No more. Just rest.

I'm tired...very tired.
But I know have to live, because I don't know when or how will I be taken from here.

Ellie, I want to see you, because I want to know if I have really met you somewhere or not. So when the time comes I have to die and be finally be freed from this world that makes me suffer so, meet me.

Till then, Ellie.