Dear Jhi,
It’s funny how I know so much about you, yet I still don’t really know what you look like.
I’ve heard your voice. I’ve listened to your stories. I’ve laughed with you, teased you, and spent hours talking to you on the phone.
But your face? That’s still a mystery.
I remember asking you to send me a picture. You did… Or at least, you said you did.
I looked at it for a while, then asked if it was really you.
You insisted it was. I didn’t believe you. You just laughed and said, “Walang labis, walang kulang.”
I still wasn’t convinced. Eventually, you sent me another one. This time, you were wearing a mask.
It was enough to prove that there was a person on the other side of all those calls, but not enough for me to finally know your face.
Some people would probably find that strange. Talking to someone every day without even knowing what they really look like. But somehow, it never bothered me as much as I thought it would.
Maybe because every time I got curious, you’d describe yourself instead.
You told me your hair was long. Not just long… Waist-length long. I tried to picture it. You said you had tattoos. You smoked.
You casually mentioned things about yourself as if they weren’t unusual at all, while I quietly tried to put the pieces together in my head. Every new detail became another brushstroke on a face I had never actually seen.
Sometimes I’d catch myself wondering if my imagination was anywhere close to reality.
Did your smile sound the way I imagined it? Did your eyes look kind? Did your laugh reach your eyes? Would I recognize you if you suddenly walked past me?
You once told me you’d rather meet me first than send me a proper picture. I never really understood why.
Maybe you wanted our first real impression of each other to happen face to face instead of through a screen. Maybe you were shy. Or maybe you simply liked keeping a little mystery.
Whatever the reason, I stopped asking after a while. Not because I wasn’t curious anymore.
I still was. Very much.
But somewhere between our lunch calls, our late-night conversations, and all the little stories you shared with me, I realized I had started knowing you in ways a photograph could never show.
I knew the sound of your voice when you were excited. I knew the pauses you made when you were thinking. I knew the way you laughed at your own jokes. I knew the gentleness in your voice whenever our conversations became serious.
Maybe that’s why I found myself smiling whenever my phone rang. Not because I finally knew what you looked like. But because I already knew the person behind the voice.
Still… I can’t help but wonder.
When we finally meet, will the face I’ve imagined all this time look anything like the real you? Or will I have to start getting to know you all over again?
Always, Nikka