stranger than fiction

HE SAT THERE CROSS-LEGGED, eyes squinting on a page of a frayed book he held in his hand. Beside him was a wide window that filled the cabin with pale yellow light. A cup of creamed coffee sat on the table in front of him, its mere aroma waking his senses and sharpening the edges of the words unraveling before his eyes. He would take a sip after a page or two while adoring the places that whipped by as the train he’s on traversed a green countryside. As he read along, his lips slowly curved into a smile: a definite sign that the proceeding hours would turn into a gripping literary adventure.

The man loved reading, fiction in particular. In some ways, he needed it more than wanting it. For him, it was a form of coping rather than a hobby or an indulgence for aesthetic pleasure. He had always seen fiction as a sweet form of escape; that if life would suck, he’d only need a good book to get past a bad day; that he could pretend to live in a world far from reality and to be someone else, at least until he reaches the last word of it. The best part of it was being able to do all these things without anything, except for an open mind and a willing heart to get lost, of course—the only two things he had left to lose.

He flipped a page and started on another, unconsciously and silently mouthing the words. In the page, the author decided to describe a girl. She was beautiful, the book said. She had melancholic eyes that anyone who fell on her gaze would feel an urge to be hopeful to see even a hint of happiness in them.

The man through the years had developed a strange way of picturing characters in the stories he read. He would usually do this, by imagining faceless heads, then one by one, he would think of people’s faces that would fit the author’s description (usually actors or actresses he saw in movies). Having read how the author portrayed the mysterious girl, he took a sip of coffee and momentarily closed his eyes. The gears turned as he tried to imagine the girl’s face; sad but painfully beautiful. However, only one kept on flashing in his mind’s eye. Crystal clear, it arouse from oblivion, crashing hard on his imagination, and burning like a beacon in a moonless night. She was someone of real significance to him. And something that should’ve been buried long ago was unearthed in a heartbeat. She saw her staring at him with those lonely eyes, and moving and speaking in the way the author wanted her to. And with that, the story turned into something more; something beyond fiction. He actually wanted to make the girl happy.

The girl was sitting on a bench, eyes to the heavens as she waited for the rain to fall. From a distance was guy gawking at the girl, captivated by the beauty and sadness she emanated. The man immediately tried to give a face to the guy but ended up giving his face instead without any regards to what the author had said of how the guy looked like. And with that, the story grew a life of its own. Strange, but to the reader, it felt good to meet the love of your life for the second time and see it from a distance. He gave up that love many moons ago, but fiction revived it, stronger than ever before. In the pit of his

stomach, he was wishing for the story not to end. But like all books, he knew it had to conclude happily or tragically. A happy ending was all he could hope for.

Page by page, the man continued to read. The yellow light from the window darkened into an orange shade. Sunset is imminent. The love story would soon end. And it’s only a matter of time before he would celebrate a “happily ever after” or be left empty just like the piece of china in front of him. He paused for a moment and let himself revel in the majesty of the retiring sun, the compartment filled with its light.

He had to intentionally rub his eyes before he could believe what’s in front of him. Sitting on the other side of the table was a woman. He looked into the eyes he knew so well but at that moment, he swore he saw a glint of bliss in them, a little faded but still pleasant to behold. He stole a glance at the open book in his hand and back to her, incredulous expression swallowing his face, mouth hanged half-open unable to speak.

“Hi.” She said; a shy smile amplified the unassuming beauty. “It’s me.”

“It’s you.” His face grew blank. He slowly bowed his head, swiftly browsed the remaining

pages of the book, and looked back. “It’s really you.”

“You’re still into that fiction thing, aren’t you?” She asked.

“Not anymore.” He reached for her hand and closed the book. He knew in his heart how the story would end this time.

Meanwhile in an alternate universe, a boy was sitting in his study. A smile was evidently illuminated by the table lamp. The boy was about to finish the last page of his book; about the story of man on a train reading his way to the love of his life. And soon, it ended, happily as the boy had hoped.