I had been trying, for weeks now, to write a suitable sequel to my war and heroism piece, but I somehow couldn’t bring myself to complete my drafts. I had started writing about Bruce Lee, and how his brand of martial arts and movie-making revolutionized martial arts and martial arts films as we know them, and how they ushered in a new era of advocacy and entertainment that, in my view, has yet to be eclipsed—at least in this side of the world. But beyond gushing about his films, the philosophy behind them, and the detail with which he planned and choreographed his scenes (especially the famous pagoda scene in Game of Death), I couldn’t find anything else to say that would connect it to my piece on Fahrenheit 9/11. Not that it was supposed to, but I wanted it to.

Details, details, details.

Then I watched Shattered Glass, a movie about a rather high-profile—and young—writer whose soaring career was struck down by an investigation that dug deep into his reporting style and writing process (I don’t want to give too much away), and I realized that, indeed, much of my work is dependent on details and on the manner in which I manage them. Indeed, in the fast-paced and unsettling world of journalism, all it takes to bring you down is one misquote, one unverified fact, or one unreliable source. You don’t want one silly detail like that to ruin your career, but it very often does.

It’s a large world out there, and there’s a big picture to which we ought to contribute, but I don’t think it can be done without sufficient attention to details.

I wanted to impress him by how well I collect letters, so I dug out some of the oldest from my “treasure box”, dated October 8, 1990. My brother was just almost a year old then, and we both giggled at the realization that my first retreat was held 14 years ago!

It was surreal, to say the least, seeing nice words and messages from names I barely recognize anymore! One retreat letter even called me Mrs. ____, an allusion to my crush du jour—whom I had also forgotten about—and told me that I “act like a lady but don’t look like one”, and maybe that’s why my crush didn’t pay me any attention. I tried to figure out what that meant, and then realized that it must have been because I was outright fat that my classmate thought I didn’t look too much like a “lady”. (Take a look at me now, dearie, and tell me what you think! Hahaha…)

As I read more letters and went further up the dateline, details of my past came rushing back as if a dam had been broken. Most of the letters and notes from my high school days—and there were a lot, I tell you!—referred to me as “Mrs. Blanch”, a reference, of course, to my first boyfriend Brian. Pick out any letter from the high school pile, and chances are you’ll find a line that goes, “How’s Brian?” or Brian this, Brian that. And, of course, I found the letters that Brian wrote me as well—including one that addressed me as “Terol”. It was such a laugh trip.

The letters that touched me most, though, were from people I barely remember now—people whom I never thought cared, but who actually did. (And I made a mental note to locate them all on Friendster!) There was one little note from a classmate of mine from second year high school, Kiv Tejada, that was supposed to be a “belated happy retreat” note. He was apologizing for not having written to me, and so on, and he ended the note by saying, “stay cute because I love you.” I was taken aback by those last words. Kiv had always made fun of me in class, and he used to pester me with jokes and silly notes and what-not, and it surprised me that he felt enough about me to write “I love you.” Sadly, Kiv passed away in a car accident early this year, and so he’s one person I’ll never be find on Friendster.

That note is now tacked on my corkboard as a reminder of how short life is, and how our words—no matter how short or seemingly insignificant—can really hurt or heal other people. Kiv’s “I love you” struck me as warm and reassuring, because he had never “made the moves” on me, nor attempted to be more than friends. I guess he just felt that he needed to say it, and he did.

“I love you” brings with it some pretty heavy responsibilities, regardless of the kind of relationship we’re in, and we should be ready for those when we say the words.

However, we should also be sensitive enough to know when those words are being meant even when they’re not being said.

I remember one really intense conversation that Paul and I had. We were talking about where we were in our lives, what we meant to each other, and so on, and I admitted feeling that I was more in love with him than he was with me. He asked me why I felt that way, and I said it was because he never said “I love you” enough.

Then he turned to me with a look that showed a lot of sadness and hurt. He had been saying “I love you”—every single day, in the littlest of his actions, in the smallest of sacrifices, in the softest of words. But I was too wrapped up in my own ideas of how love should be expressed, and so I took all those little expressions of devotion as meaningless.

“And all you needed to know that was a letter from me,” he sighed.

I was looking through my college pile, seeing a lot of letters from my roommate and “sister”, Gen, my college sweetheart, Mach, and a host of other people from my student council days, when a little note found its way in my hands. I opened it, and I was stunned to see the Batman insignia hastily drawn at the bottom of the page. Ohmigod. Paul! (I didn’t realize that we were close enough to write each other notes back then!)

Then I laughed out loud upon reading his note, which was about the girl that he pursued through most of his college days. He was writing about her, and about how good it was to have spoken to her again, even just for a while… but he was writing to me. I didn’t even know that I knew about her back then, and I honestly don’t remember us having been close enough to have talked about these things. But we apparently had been rather tight, and something about our friendship apparently already struck him by then, for Paul to have written me about her.

“You always think that life has no more surprises for (you) and then… you’re surprised,” he wrote.

Well, sweetie, eight years later, and look at us now. Life’s little surprises.