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I'd forgotten what 'kilig' feels like and then I matched with you
[Ed's note: #TinderTales is a weekly column that attempts to look at online dating. This week's tale has our Tinderella suddenly feeling that thing she's almost fogotten: 'kilig'. Have a story to share? Email us at submissions@gmanews.tv]
Dear Tinder Crush,
Kilig is the last thing I’d expect to feel while experimenting with a dating app. Thirsty, yes. Horny? Maybe, if I was looking for a hookup.
But kilig? Hell, no. I haven’t felt it since high school, which was a long, long time ago. Years of casual dating or meetups with relatively decent men didn’t even come close to making me feel that way. Not the kind that puts proverbial butterflies in my gut and a stupid grin on my face every time I see yours.
Yet here we are, and here I am. Completely, unflatteringly, high-school-levels kilig to the bones.
Everyone knows it. My friends know it, the servers at the places we frequent know it, pretty much anyone who’s seen us together knows it. They can see it on my face, clear as day. Except you. At least, not yet.
I was only looking to meet new people, really. An incorrigible workaholic, I simply had no time for, nor interest in dating anyone, and I never really stayed in one place for long. But then friends kept telling me to try Tinder while I was abroad, so I did, and I actually had some good, clean fun.
I continued using it in Manila, which was a lot trickier and more frustrating, but it was better than nothing. I realized that if I don’t keep putting myself out there, I’d die a sad old maid which, quite frankly, scared the shit out of me more than anything.
Guys came and went – guys who say they’re okay with being friends but end up wanting to be more than that, even if I didn’t.
Then you came along. A returning AFAM with few friends, no family and zero Tinder expectations here, you said in your bio that you wanted to meet new people. Sounds great to me, so I swiped right. Turns out that wasn’t the only thing we had in common.
It’s a match – literally and figuratively
We hit it off from the moment we exchanged messages. You were smart, witty, sarcastic, and funny. Well-mannered and charming. Not to mention ridiculously handsome. I thought, if this online chemistry didn’t translate well in real life, at least I wouldn’t mind being seen with this arm candy for a couple of hours.
But the chemistry was as real as the gorgeous smile that lit up your face when you saw me for the first time. Soon, we were already eating off of each other’s plates, finishing each other’s food and sentences, cementing plans for our next date. Which pretty much became an everyday occurrence.
It amazed me how quickly we became comfortable with each other. You’ve seen me on my bad days and vice versa – you scruffy and half-awake versus me with PMS, resting bitch face devoid of makeup and legs unshaven. We’d stuff ourselves full of carbs while poking fun at each other’s Tinder matches here and abroad, then rave about how lucky we were to have found each other in Manila, of all places.
On days when work kept us from meeting up, we would chat about random stuff and discover more things we had in common. And come up with more reasons to see each other at least once a day, like grocery shopping, ducking out of the office to destress over coffee, doing midnight snack runs. Before I knew it, we had fallen into what a friend called an OMC routine – “old married couple.”
“Ang cute niyo,” said the barista at the café where we’d get our afternoon caffeine shots. I started to say, “Ah, no, we’re not together,” but then I thought, why not? Then the butterflies started coming, along with that stupid grin on my face.
There it was: Kilig.
Hala, kinikilig na pala ako.
Finally, that night came. We were at your place, gorging on greasy pizza and beer while watching “Game of Thrones” reruns. As you went about your animated commentaries, carefully evading the topic of Jon Snow’s perfect butt, I could only stare at your equally perfect mouth and wonder what it would be like to kiss it. (Your mouth, not Jon Snow’s butt. God, this is driving me crazy.)
I inched closer until I could smell the cologne on the crook of your neck. Yep, that same crook where my forehead fit so perfectly whenever you hug me hello and goodbye.
A perfect fit. A perfect match. Lord help me, something’s gonna happen. Something’s gotta happen.
Then you mentioned having visited Dorne’s location with your girlfriend last year and how beautiful it was. And, oh, she’s coming to visit in a couple of weeks. You’re going to Palawan. What’s good there?
BRB, dying
I sat there smiling and talking and laughing like the fate of the world depended on it. Then I faked stomach cramps, went home and drowned my feelings in a tub of ice cream.
It all makes sense now. You’ve always been the perfect gentleman. Too perfect, now that I think about it. Much like our instant, almost unnatural closeness, which was suspiciously similar to what my best friend and I share. The lack of flirty messages. Your warm but polite affection. Always malambing, but never malandi.
Christ, how stupid of me. Of course you have a girlfriend. And of course I’d misread the signs pointing to that very obvious conclusion. What else was a kilig-driven girl supposed to think?
Maybe I had it coming. Sure, we both said we’re only looking to make new friends, but come on. Who swipes right for someone they don’t find attractive anyway? (Anyone who says they do is full of shit, sorry.)
Don’t get me wrong. We ARE friends. Really good ones. But see, here’s the thing – I don’t want to become that friend who secretly longs to be more than that, and I certainly don’t want to become that girl who wishes you’d break up and ends up feeling utterly shitty for even thinking it in the first place.
I am better than that, and I deserve better than this.
I do like you, more than I’ll ever care to admit. But don’t worry, I won’t act on it, and this is why: I really enjoy your company, and I know you feel the same. That should be enough for me.
If there’s anything I’ve learned in the few times we’d hung out after that fateful night, it’s that I’d rather have you in my life even if it means dying a little bit each time I’m with you. But, hey, if fate prefers to throw me a BFF instead of a BF, so be it. This kind of connection doesn’t come very often, let alone on Tinder, and I sure as hell won’t let anything or anyone (including myself) mess it up.
Manning up and moving on
Come, now, don’t make that face – I’m fine. Pretty darn great, actually. Now that I’ve let it all out, it’s time to man up and move on.
While you’re off island-hopping with your girlfriend, I’ve had plenty of time to get my shit together. I’ve hauled my ass off to the gym to lose the fifteen pounds I’d gained from all our midnight pig-out sessions. I’ve also started using Tinder again and apologized to the other promising matches I’d ignored because I was so preoccupied with you.
They’re not you, of course, but unlike you, they’re actually single and looking to become more than friends. And I’ll no longer keep trying to convince myself that I don’t want the same.
Hopefully, by the time you get back and we start hanging out again like your last message said we would, I can be around you without wanting like mad to jump your bones when we’re alone. And when we hug each other hello and goodbye, I won’t find myself wishing we could stay like that just a bit longer.
Whatever happens, at the very least, I want to thank you for making me feel kilig again. You may be the first to do that in a while, but I’m sure you won’t be the last.
Who knows? If ever you get to read this someday, maybe we’ll get a good laugh out of it, and I’ll even be able to explain to you what that word means without it actually showing up on my face. Cheers! — LA, GMA News
