Dreaming Out Loud

I called Ricky last Tuesday afternoon at his office just to say hi, and the girl who answered said that he'd been brought to Medical City. I got worried and called his cellphone. Reitch answered and told me he was in the ICU. And on April 18, we said goodbye forever.

It's Thursday now, and I'm still struggling with the fact that I'll never hear him say "Halloooo" or call me "Pretty girl" again.

Ricky was practically family. I live alone here in Manila, and he was always there when I needed to talk to someone. I remember being unable to sleep over a problem and I called him at 4am and even if he was groggy, he didn't get mad at me. Every time there was a long weekend, he'd text to ask me if I had plans and invite me to join him and Reitch.

He was Broadwall, our pillar of strength: logistics and security chief at Conventions, consultant on protocol, Ringbearer and Bane to Ian's bane. And yet he was Papa Ball too, always ready with a quote from Monty Python, the one who endlessly teased me about my lovelife, and that big booming ha-ha-ha-ha laugh.

I cried hard last night at Brash Young Cinema. That's where we first met, at a VA meeting. See the "Don't Get Wimpy Mascots, Get the Stormballs" sign on the wall? He dictated that to me and I wrote the sign. He used to walk me home from Brash.

Everytime I was down and depressed he’d tease me “Be English, my dear! Stiff upper lip!”

Well, sorry Ricky, but this time I don’t think I can! Who am I going to bug when I want to eat pasta and gelato at Amici? Who’s going to keep the Secretariat calm during Conventions? Who’s going to be Chief Volunteer next time Neil Gaiman comes to Manila? Who's going to bug me to get a boyfriend?

I miss you terribly, Ricky.
Thank you for being one of the best friends I ever had.