New Story: TEN

While Lui is still engaged in a court battle to get both a TPO and an annulment from still husband Franc, and confused as to how she feels towards Yael, I managed to squeeze in one story (which I know I said I will publish after finishing Liebut what the hell).

This is the split-screen story I posted about a couple of weeks ago. I wrote it that way, doing Nina’s POV first, and then writing Matt’s, and then going back to Nina’s to add some more insights. The inspiration from this story came from my thinking of first-person stories. What about the other characters? What about their perspective? Thus, the he-said, she-said versions of the story.

I have to admit: this story may be a little bit indulgent. I wrote this for my catharsis. I was going through a rough patch (and yes, it’s with a guy) and it was getting tiring. So I had to write this. I needed the release.

So how to read this? I think you can do it either way: read Nina’s POV and then Matt’s (that’s how I arranged it), or vice versa, or read all of Nina’s POV first and then Matt’s. Your choice. :)

To download Ten, click here.

Am still thinking about how to post it here.


Till the next story,



Birthday Story 2012: (One of) The One(s) that Got Away

Yey, a birthday story! I know, I know. I couldn’t come up with an enticing Chapter 4 for Lines Crossed, nor could I ever figure out how to push through with No One Will Ever Get Hurt part 2 (that’s halfway done, but something’s just not right with the plot). So I came up with this story.

I’ve emailed this to a few people already (I just changed the disclaimer, guys, and added a last quote at the end). And while I do have doubts of putting this out in the open, I still would, because I wanted people to know what an awesome person he was. He was that awesome he actually did inspire a story.

And oh, just a note: I wouldn’t confirm or deny any guesses as to who the guy is.

Dig in, enjoy, and let me know what you guys think:

For the PDF copy, please download here.

(One of) The One(s) that Got Away: The last days

March 2009

It was there, Webb, clear as day, for me to see. It was only posted a few hours ago before I logged in on Facebook.

Emmanuel Webber Tan Gozon is in a relationship with Ramona Cecile F. Limtanco.

I knew you could do it to me, but I didn’t realize how much of an ass you’d have to be to do it to me this way.

I didn’t know that this was how you would break my heart.

April 2009

It was my graduation. I was leaving college, and leaving you and our spoiled whatever. You never texted me again after that confirmation on Facebook; never checked up on me. I wanted to tell you how things worked out, how Ces and I got an uno for our thesis and how it hurt to not include you in the acknowledgment page in our thesis because Ces said you don’t deserve it. I wanted to tell you how I got a job offer and how I am so stoked to start to be a part of the working class. I wanted to tell you so many things, Webb, so many things that we used to share to each other, but I couldn’t.

I couldn’t because you were gone.

I couldn’t because you have a Cecile now.

Your sister, Lori, kept on asking what happened to us, because apparently you were bringing Cecile to your apartment. She wasn’t used to seeing any other girl around you aside from me.

Kala ko nga kayo na eh.

I smiled bitterly. I don’t know if your sister told you this, but my reply to her was: Kala ko rin eh.

As the old Filipino saying goes, Maraming namamatay sa akala. 

May 2009

I have a job, Webb, and it pays well, and the first thing I spend it on was on a David Cook vs. David Archuleta concert offering here in Manila. I bought the Gold seats, the ones that cost over P6,000, because I love David Cook so much. It’s the first thing I ever bought with my first paycheck.

Remember, Webb, when you promised that if David Cook goes here, we’ll watch his concert together?

April 2010

Webb, what happened?

And I am not asking this in a very bitter, damn-you-broke-my-heart-and-yet-you-act-like-nothing-happened kind of way. I am asking this out of sheer curiosity.


I tried to dissect the anatomy of our non-relationship-slash-friendship. There were so many questions in my head as to what have gone wrong and what went right, but I could never confirm them to you anymore. There were days when I felt bitter towards it, but they are overpowered by the greater and sweeter memories you’ve left behind for me.

May 2010

My first year on the job. Aside from our pseudo-relationship, this is the longest one I’ve ever had, and I am so elated. But it didn’t mean that I was going through an easy road—I was depressed, because I was so wrung out from work and I didn’t have any outlet because there wasn’t any you to rant to.

But you felt me, didn’t you? I wasn’t sure if you had this psychic thing going on for you, but you just felt me.

Hey Liz. Just checking up on u. Hope all is well.

It was your first message to me in a YEAR, Webb, and it sure has one helluva timing.

All isn’t well, but I hope on your end they are. Take care, Webb.

We’re too civil, too stiff. We weren’t this before. Did I do this or did you?

What’s wrong?

Work. Stress. Those kinds of things.

I went vague on you because I didn’t want to need you anymore, Webb. I was pretty sure you’d disappear again, like you always do.

Liz, u r 1 of d best people I know. Tough & strong. Ul pull through.

And I did, Webb.

I did.


Who knows why

Two people perfectly aligned

Should ever have to find themselves apart

I’ll never understand my heart

Even if I Don’t, Rachael Yamagata

(One of) The One(s) that Got Away: February 2009

February 2009

My days were starting to get longer and longer and longer as the thesis deadline looms like a big dark gray cloud about to consume me had I chosen to ignore it. The added pressure of my other majors and my electives—tell me, why did I take Italian 11 again? At 7 in the morning, no less?—was also weighing down on me. I was starting to be your Little Miss Grumpy, Little Miss Absent-Can-I-Take-A-Raincheck, Little Miss Too-Stressed-To-Have-Fun. Our computer shop trips were quickly transformed to library runs, with you giving up on me after a couple of hours and heading out to play DOTA. Our movie nights were gone as I spent overnighter after overnighter; my money spent on thesis and thesis alone.

And my birthday was looming too, as you reminded me, a day after the first draft of thesis deadline.

On one hand, I was happy, because it meant we made it—we are going to graduate on time, because we’ve finished our data gathering and our analysis has framework already but no meat just yet—while on the other hand I wasn’t looking forward to getting a year older. To top it off, I’ll be so emotionally and physically drained on my birthday that I couldn’t care less how to celebrate it.

But you do, right, Webb? You cared enough to make my 20th fun.

I had a 7AM class on the day of my birthday, and when I was heading out, you were already outside the door of my boarding house, a bouquet of roses in hand. Red roses. Fun, fresh, fragrant red roses. A dozen of them. Shall I keep on raving on how those roses brightened up my day?

And how they now lay dry and wilted, pretty much how our ‘friendship’ went?

You handed me a paper bag, a big one that is half as tall as I was. When I peeked inside, I cussed, because Webb, you got me that big Cookie Monster stuffed toy I wanted all my life.

In my excitement I pulled you into me and I hugged you, and you hugged me back, tighter than I have ever been held, and when we pulled away from each other, your smile was wider than mine.

“Well, glad you liked the gifts,” you said, clearing your throat, a blush creeping up your face. You were almost as red as the roses, but I didn’t say anything. “Happy birthday, Lizzie,” you said, and I just beamed at you. I ran upstairs, leaving the roses and the stuffed toy, and then we headed out, you taking me to my class.

But the day wasn’t all bright, right, Webb? If anything, the next moment was probably the dullest.


We turned at the same time towards the group of people who called your name. I recognized them as the guys who were in your inter-collegiate basketball team, the one you still play for (and the one whom you will still play for even if you shifted to PolSci since it’s the same college). I endured about three minutes of manly and friendly banter before the boys finally shifted their attentions to me.

“You must be Cecile.”

I heard you choke next to me, Webb. I was pretty sure you weren’t expecting that.

Who in the hell is Cecile?

“Um, nope. Liz,” I said, when it became apparent that you couldn’t recover just in time to save yourself from the hell that your teammates put you in.

“My friend,” you followed up, and I just nodded, slowly at first, and then bitterly, looking up for a split second because I felt the tears rushing in.


You placed me in the friendzone again, Webb. After the roses, the Cookie Monster, all those movie nights and those days we spent in the computer shops. After the holding hands and the quiet moments. After the big life decisions we tried to figure out. After the text marathons. After the countless of basketball games I watched as your cheerleader.

I was a friend.

“Oh yeah… You did tell us about her,” was your friend’s lame attempt to make me feel better. I just gave him a fake smile, gave you a fake smile, and then mumbled, “Late for class,” and I was off. You tried to call me back, but I wouldn’t have it—it was still too painful and I couldn’t accept it.

Who was Cecile, Webb?

In the middle of everything we were doing, you still found time for a Cecile?!

It was a deep sword you thrust into me, Webb. A double-edged kind: that I was (just) your friend, and there was a Cecile.


The worse thing about my birthday—well, aside from that act you pulled on me—was that I only had one class, that 7AM one, which meant my day had a very early start despite all the sleepless nights prior. I was already heading home to sleep—I was getting cranky, and that scene you made me go through that morning just made my mood even worse. I didn’t need to see you but you were there, outside my classroom, waiting. You didn’t leave when I left, you stayed when I couldn’t, and it was fine at this instance because I think you were the one at fault here.

“Liz, I’m—”

Was it wrong, Webb, to not ask for explanations? I was too tired, and I didn’t need any more drama. And I think you saw it, because you stopped—you stopped apologizing and you stopped from launching into your explanation, not that I needed it at that moment. I didn’t need it then, I guess, because I was tired, but I need it now, Webb, because it’s confusing how everything happened, how the timelines overlapped, and how everything was gone.

Will we have lasted, became more concrete and real, if I asked and demanded more? If I begged you to put a label on whatever it was we shared, will you not be one of the ones that got away? If I braved through it, told you I think we’re something more than friends, what would you have said, Webb?

You nodded, dropped your head and took a deep breath. When you looked at me again, there were so many words written on your face that I wasn’t sure why I wasn’t able to read them. Was it because I lacked sleep or because you’re confused too? Was it because I hoped, you’d say everything, right at that moment, with you not bothering to care that I can’t handle anything right now?

“Let’s go home,” was all you said, and I just nodded. You took my hand and I followed, blindly, as we went home to your place.


It was already dark when I woke up, and I could hear you singing—more like murdering David Cook’s version of Always Be My Baby—somewhere in the apartment. I rolled off the bed, tried to fix my hair, and then went out, and I had the most beautiful and amusing scene in front of me.

You arranged mini-cupcakes—later on I counted and there were twenty mini-cupcakes, which was my age—on a plate, with the mini-cupcake on the center carrying a lone blue and white candle. The smell of pancit canton wafted in the air—instant pancit canton. Closer inspection revealed you were preparing two hot and spicy and two original flavored ones.

I stood there, just watching you, leaning against the doorjamb, because I was taking in the moment. I didn’t care about just friends, I didn’t care about Cecile—all that I cared about was you standing there, in front of me, trying to make my birthday special.

Webb, thank you. The little things, the little simple things, are all I needed that day.

“Did you have a good sleep?”

I didn’t notice you’ve already stopped singing. I wiped the wistful smile on my face and walked over to you, stopping just when my bare feet are touching yours. “I did. Thanks,” I told you, and you shrugged. You playfully touched my cheek, saying, “Well, at least you’re smiling now. This morning you were still my Little Miss Grumpy.”

I rolled my eyes at that quip and took a step back, but not before you trapped me in your arms, hugging me, and whispered to my ear, “Happy birthday, Elizabeth. A year older and a year wiser.”

When I stepped back, I grinned at you. “I don’t know about the last part, but thanks,” I said, and I pranced away from you. I wanted to kiss you at that moment, Webb, and it wasn’t just because I was thankful for everything you’ve done. I wanted you, at that moment more than ever, but what stopped me was the uncertainty that always came with you.

I was at the table, eyeing the mini-cupcakes when you popped next to me, the pancit canton all cooked and done, separated into two plates. The smell made my tummy grumble and I realized I haven’t eaten since this morning.

You whisked out a matchbox and lit the candle, and you turned to me. “Blow the candle, Lizzie. Make a wish,” you said softly, and I closed my eyes, and wished and wished.

You tried to ask me, loads of times, what my wish was that night, but I wouldn’t give in. You see, I wished for certainty and security—concerning you and life in general. I wished you’d be sure, Webb, about me and about us. I wished I would graduate this April without any other hiccups.

I batted one out of two of those wishes, Webb. You knew which one came to reality.


You weren’t there during Valentine’s, Webb. I half-expected another bouquet of roses, another stuffed toy, a simple day with you, no frills. I can do the pancit canton gig over and over because it didn’t matter about all the lavishness, Webb. You didn’t text, you didn’t call. I didn’t feel you.

Did you vanish again, Webb?

Where were you?

(One of) The One(s) that Got Away: January 2009

January 2009

I was wrong when I thought you’d be gone in a week, or in a month. You proved my friends wrong—even Ces—because you’ve been consistent for over a month. You haven’t disappeared. You haven’t been away for so long that I’d forget you existed. You haven’t been away for so long that I’d resumed being bitter.

Why, Webb?

Why did you stay this time around?

Was the threat of the other guy too great that you know if you disappeared one more time, there’ll be no more me to go back to?

I had to talk to him, you know? Give him a clean break. Ask for his forgiveness. I told him who you are, and an approximation of whom I thought you are to me. He asked me, Webb, if I was sure. If I was sure of you. If I was sure if you’d stick around for good.

You see, in retrospect, if ever there was a ranking, he would precede you, Webb. He’d be the top one of those ones who got away. You’d be in the top five—hell, the top ten if the list was ever that long.

But damn it, Webb.


I cried that day, so hard, because it broke me that I had to break his heart. You tried to call and I didn’t answer, you sent me so many texts that told me you were worried, and you even went to the boarding house and my college just to check me. I sincerely thought we’d have a turning point somewhere during this time—I thought we’d start getting somewhere.

The next day, you were at my boarding house, with McDonald’s takeout in hand, waiting for me. What time did you wake up? I had a 7AM class for that day, and I got out of the boarding house at 6:30AM, and you were already there.

“You okay?” you asked me, handing me the takeout, and we started to walk. I didn’t answer; you took my file folder and my readings from me despite me struggling.

“I was worried. You used to reply right away when I text you. And we were supposed to go to—”

I cut you off in mid-sentence, telling you that I wasn’t able to answer you because I was with him the whole afternoon. I didn’t tell you I was breaking his heart and trying to mend it simultaneously—and how he broke mine when he said he couldn’t be friends with me just yet.

He was one of the good guys, Webb.

I know, I know—you didn’t ask for any of this. You didn’t ask for me to give him up; you didn’t ask for me to go back to you.

Not entirely your fault.

Anyway, telling you about him—was that stupid? The look on your face, you seemed jarred, Webb. Like I betrayed you or something.

Did I?

I watched you as you slowly regrouped. When you got over that hump, I saw you nod, as if everything was already okay. Were they, Webb? Were they ever?

“You okay?” you asked again, and I just shrugged. You placed your arm over my shoulder and pulled me closer. The morning was still chilly—you were right, why did I get a frigging 7AM class during 2nd sem when it was colder and harder to get up in the morning?—and I needed your warmth. We started walking while I munched on the hashbrown.

“So when are we going to Las Piñas?” you asked, skidding along to another topic. Right, we were supposed to do the Las Piñas leg of my fieldwork for my thesis. Ces was doing the Quezon City one. I wanted to take the Quezon City but you said something along the lines of “have an adventure” so I trusted you and told Ces I’ll take the South.

For you. So we can have another adventure.

I finished the hashbrown—we reached my building by this time, but I still had to make two flights of stairs to my 207 classroom—and fished for my planner, the one you constantly tease me about because I have written all sorts of things there, including everything we do. I think that should have clued you in, Webb, about how I feel for you, but you didn’t get it.

“7th,” I told you, and you nodded. Your schedule always seemed to be free, Webb, why is that? Do you really just make it a point to show up when it comes to me and you or you really don’t have anything to do?

“I’ll be there. Are we still on for later or you need more… time?” you said softly. I appreciated it, that you tried to understand, Webb. That was one of the good things about you.

“We’re still on,” I told you, and you reached down, gave my hand a quick squeeze and was off, probably to where I’ll be meeting you later. Continue reading

(One of) The One(s) that Got Away: December 2008

December 2008

In hindsight, I should have remembered it was your first Lantern Parade in Diliman. And that you celebrated it in grand fashion—it’s our university’s 100 years.

But I didn’t remember it that day. I didn’t remember that this was your first in Diliman while it was going to be my last one as a student. I didn’t even want to pay attention to you when I passed by you at the AS corridor. We haven’t talked for months after that Baguio trip—you call inviting me to a couple of your games talking? If I knew it, you were just sending mass texts and it wasn’t just for me.

My friends tell me that if you disappear just like that after what would have been a meaningful time together, I should adopt this age-old saying: Out of sight, out of mind. I tried, Webb. Desperately tried. But I see you, every Tuesdays and Thursdays, at that same corridor, even if I didn’t want to, even if I opt to go the other way. I hated you during that time, Webb. You were like a ghost, haunting me, taunting me. You were dangling yourself in front of me and it sucks because I couldn’t have you. I mean, I could have, but you were so elusive.

I was walking down that same corridor with a new ‘friend.’ He was my crush from the pep squad, a drummer, and I have been eyeing him for so long, way before I eyed you. One of my blockmates finally introduced us to each other, and he met me that day so we’d have lunch. He wasn’t like you, Webb, because he doesn’t flutter—he stays. He was one of the most consistent people I know—a good morning text every single morning, a personalized one, not like the one that you send me when you have plans of showing up, a goodnight text when we see each other and even if we don’t, and texts in between. He was the healthy kind of relationship, Webb. He was perfect, to say the least, and­—and but—he wasn’t you.

I was laughing, I remembered, because he was telling me some corny joke and I had to laugh—I needed to laugh, I was too stressed that week that even the corniest of all jokes can crack me up. We were at the point in this dating stage or whatever where I can allow him to place an arm over my shoulder, to sometimes hold my hand while we walk. We were that close, Webb. That close.

At that moment he draped his arm over my shoulder, pulling me into him, and I leaned against him. I felt him kiss me on the hair and I let him—he feels nice, which I bet you wouldn’t want to know but I’m still telling you. I was still smiling that silly grin, and when I looked up, I nearly froze—you were there, a few steps away from us. Your arms were across your chest, but it wasn’t in the relaxed, casual way you had. There was this deep frown on your face and your lips were in a thin, straight line.

Did you like what you saw, Webb?

“Liz,” I heard him say, and I had to pay attention to him.

“Pizza,” I told him brightly, and he agreed. Before he cracked the joke we were deciding on what to have for lunch. That was how the cookie crumbled between me and him—it was always a discussion, Webb. We weren’t into flipping coins to decide which movie to watch or which resto to go to.

You opened your mouth when we passed by you, but I didn’t want to hear it, Webb.

You were too quiet the past months, that even if you open your mouth to say something, I wouldn’t hear a thing. Continue reading

(One of) The One(s) that Got Away: October 2008

October 2008

I never understood why you flicker, Webb. I never understood why you show up, make me happy and grand and like the only girl in the world and then disappear. I still see you, at the corridors when I have my Geog100 class, but I pretend that I don’t because you pretend you don’t see me. Sometimes I even make it a point to pass by that corridor just to see you, but you still don’t see me. I wasn’t sure if that hurt—it confused me as hell—and I had moments where I wanted to confront you.

Why aren’t you texting me anymore, Webb?

Why don’t you see me anymore?

No more IMs too.

I can’t do mixed signals because I’m not good at this game. I always lose in this game, Webb, did you know that?

Or is your disappearance directly related to the fact that I started missing your inter-collegiate games and I stopped being your cheerleader?

I still went to your games, Webb, but maybe not as often as I wanted to. Out of the 20+ games you played, I wasn’t in nine of them. Nine, Webb—and only because I had classes when you had your games. Maybe you didn’t see me—I was just there, I didn’t want to draw attention to myself, but come to think of it now, maybe I should have—but I was there. I saw your great games, I saw the games when you were benched, I saw your games.

But it didn’t matter, Webb, because you still disappeared.

And when you appear once more, waltzing in without a care in the world, you don’t have any explanations.

And I didn’t say that I needed any.

Because we weren’t anything, right, Webb? I didn’t have the right to ask, to demand, to look for you.

I didn’t have the right to miss you when I miss you so, so, so much.


Hi.ü Gusto mo punta Baguio?

It was a random question, Webb. A very random, out-of-the-blue one.

After a month or so since we went out, you text me, asking me if I want to do an out-of-towner.


I couldn’t think of a nice reply.

My blockmates & I r going to Baguio over sembreak. Gusto mo sama? :)

I’ll be your +1?

Yup. :)

But you didn’t tell me, huh, Webb, that the people going on the trip with us, that your blockmates, are bringing their +1s who are their boyfriends/girlfriends. I had to figure it out along the way—in the van, our seatmates Mike and Tessa are holding hands, how in the division of rooms in the rest house we rented, everyone had ‘coupled’ up. I expected a boys-and-girls division in terms of rooming up, but that didn’t happen (not that I cared, I wasn’t that conservative). The five rooms in the rest house, all contained couples.

We weren’t a couple, but I just gave in when you asked, “Be my roomie?”

You deposited our bags into the room assigned to us—the one at the attic, which was cozy and warm and dark. I liked that room—I told you it was my dream room, in a secluded place, just me and my thoughts. It was pink, but you didn’t mind—pink comforters on the water bed that was just on the floor, pink curtains that cover the lone small window in the room, the walls and even the ceiling that separated us from the roof was pink.

“But pink?” you asked, and I grinned. You knew that I never was the girly girl and though I never hated pink, it wasn’t my color of choice.

“Blue. An attic room that’s blue.”

You flopped down on the bed and it sagged under your weight, and you pulled me down to it. I landed next to you, the six-, seven-hour trip finally taking its toll on me, and I just closed my eyes. We had two hours before we head out to our lunch at the 50’s Diner. Despite having five rooms, the rest house we got only has two bathrooms, and we were listed last in the list of people taking a bath.

“Tired?” you asked, your voice breaking the silence very smoothly.

“I was in an overnighter before we went here. Needed to submit a paper before we leave,” was all I said—mumbled was more like it. I kicked off my shoes, not caring where they landed, felt for the pillows on the bed and found one, hugged it.

I didn’t know you were watching me all the time I was doing that.

“Sorry,” you said, your voice still soft.

When I opened my eyes, I saw that your head propped on your elbow, and you were watching me. I felt a blush creep up my cheeks and I forced down my panic. “For what?” I asked, my voice coming out in a squeak.

You were so close, Webb. I couldn’t function well.

“Dragging you here?” you said, and I gave you a tired smile.

“I wanted to go here. My lack of sleep is not on you.”

You nodded, and then you slid next to me, your hand creeping over my hand that was around the pillow. Your cold fingers laced with mine, and I closed my fingers over yours. I saw you smile back, heard your contented sigh.

“Liz,” was all you said, and then you closed your eyes as well. You scooted closer, our foreheads touched, and I could feel you breathing, exhaling, on my face. You were warming me up because I was feeling chilly, and I didn’t need the comforter because you were so near. You’re too warm, and I liked it.

I loved our silence, Webb.


I didn’t know where we were anymore, but we were still in Baguio. I wasn’t listening to whatever your friends were saying because you were busy telling me something about I couldn’t remember. What were you telling me then, Webb? Were those sweet nothings?

I could only wish.

I haven’t heard any three words from you that I had expected to hear—I love you, I miss you, I like you.

It was nearing sunset, and we were at the edge of some cliff. You whispered, “We’re at the highest point of Baguio” into my ear, and I wasn’t sure if it was just the air or it was your whisper that made me shiver. I had expected it was cold in Baguio, but not this cold. My long-sleeved black shirt and my jacket were nothing compared to the chill that was in the air at the highest point of Baguio, wherever that may have been. For all we know, we weren’t at the highest point of Baguio—we just thought we were because they told us we were.

I stood there, taking in the view. The clouds seemed like they came from the ground—or was that fog?—covering the mountains and the houses. It felt like the sky and the ground was one giant mass of white cotton candy—I didn’t tell you there was this part of me that wished I could jump into it even though I know I wouldn’t float and that I would die. It felt like we died and we were in heaven—it was so white. And the sun peaked out of the clouds, spilling orange and yellow and red all over the white canvas that lay before us.

It was beautiful, and when I looked at you, you were beautiful, and I had an internal debate as to which one was more beautiful and ended up just saying I am blessed to have this moment.

You didn’t say anything—you just looked at me, Webb, and then at the scenery before us. And then you smiled the smile I wanted to bottle so I always have it with me, the smile that chipped away a piece of my heart because I couldn’t see it again anymore. I never trusted my memory at how good that smile was; the memory wasn’t enough for I needed the real thing.

But I couldn’t have it, anymore, right, Webb? I couldn’t see you smiling at me anymore.

You leaned in, kissing me on the forehead, and then in a quite subtle move, you were behind me, wrapping your arms around me. I could feel you resting your head on my shoulder, and I leaned against you. I knew if I turned my head slightly, just to look at you, I can kiss you, but I didn’t do that—no, I wanted to, but I didn’t. We were breathing as one—the silence, the calm… everything was powerful, everything was beautiful.

No words could ever capture that moment and how much I want that moment back, Webb.

No words.