Mada Mada Dane

During Drama practice yesterday, we were asked to go up to present an improvised monologue to everyone. It could be about anything and everything, but had to be under the theme of "Love". I did my monologue, and funnily enough, I felt really proud of it. For some strange reason, I got so into it that it felt like I was the character, and it all felt so damned real to me, even though I knew that whatever I was presenting was purely fictional.

The monologue affected me so much that I went home and typed everything out straightaway, and yes of course I decided to post it up here. However, this piece is really personal despite the fact that none of this is real, so I ask you to please be nice, don't rip this apart. The usual rules apply though: You likey, you askey me if you can takey. You likey, you takey without askey, I find out, I kill you.

Oh, and yes, this piece is titled "Mada Mada Dane". Note the glaringly obvious taken-from-Prince-Of-Tennis phrase. Also, this piece is very raw, so please excuse any mistakes you might find!

When I saw you for the first time, watching you play against your opponent on the tennis court, I thought I was watching a god. The way you moved, serving the ball, returning your opponent’s attacks, it was all so fluid, so perfect, no matter how cliched that sounded. The seniors said you were a prodigy, that you had the potential to be world-class given the right time and training. I silently agreed. I talked to you after your match then, congratulating you on your easy win of 6-1, but you didn’t say too much. I guess you thought I was just another one of your fangirls, another person to forget. Someone who didn’t quite matter.

I’m glad, though, that I saw you that rainy day. You were practising your tennis again, in the rain. Weren’t you worried that you would catch a cold? Weren’t you? I was so worried about you. I’m so glad I saw you, though, because you walked me home that day. And you told me that you thought I was pretty. Do you know, that night I couldn’t stop smiling? Even my parents asked me what had happened. Of course, I just shook my head and said that nothing had happened, and told them not to worry. The funny thing was that after that rainy day, I started going to every one of your tennis practices and games, just to watch you play. And you started walking me home every day.

I guess that was how our relationship started. Those walks home, those stolen moments in between classes and before tennis practice, I treasured each and every one of them. I wished for such happiness to never end, and each time you said you loved me, I quietly hoped that it would never be the last time I would hear such words from you.

But you had to go, didn’t you? You, the tennis prodigy. You were going to America, having been chosen to compete in the U.S. Open. I didn’t want you to go, you know that. I’m ashamed to say that I argued with you over your leaving for America. Your going overseas wasn’t the problem, because I was okay with that. I was proud that my boyfriend, the tennis prodigy, was chosen to play in the famous U.S. Open. Even someone like me knew how important the competition was. My problem was that you would be gone for two years. Two years. Why did you have to go for that long? One competition wouldn’t take so long, would it? But that was all you said. You would be gone for two long years.

When I sent you off at the airport, you gave me your hat. That surprised me, because I know how much you love that hat. You never go anywhere without it. You said that by giving me your hat, you would always be with me in one way or another. Do you remember the words I whispered in your ear, just before you left? I told you, “You’ll never be up to my standards”. It was our inside joke, remember? You used to say it to me all the time to tease me, and I guess I started saying it too. It became something the two of us would say only to each other. Amazing how this so-called insult could hold such meaning for us.

Why did your plane have to crash? Why? You told me that you would come back to me. You said you’d come back with your trophy. You were my tennis champion. My champion. You weren’t supposed to die. You promised that you would come back, and you’d never broken a promise to me before. Why did you have to break it now, of all times?

They had to hold a closed-casket funeral for you, but you looked so happy in the picture that they used. It was raining on the day of the funeral, you know. Do you remember the first time you walked me home? It was raining then, too. I wore your hat at the funeral. In fact, I hardly go anywhere without it now, just like you.

Everyone’s asking me how I’m coping. They ask me if I’m alright, if I will ever move on from you. Everytime someone asks me such a question, I always give them the same answer.

I miss you. I miss how your hair flops over your eyes ever so slightly, even when you get hat hair after wearing that hat for so long. I miss how you smell of pine and slightly of sweat. I miss how your eyes gleam whenever you face a challenge. I miss how your arms would fold around me when you hugged me tight and refused to let go. I miss hearing your voice when you said that you loved me. I miss the moments we had.

I miss you.

And I cannot move on.