Living Beyond Corpus Delicti
Whenever I commute in the streets of Manila on my way to school, I see strangers, each absorbed in their own days. Their own lives. At times, I just perceive them as flesh walking around. Yet, somehow it dawned on me that these strangers may have a story behind them to tell. It may be their own struggle with their own emotions and issues. They may be talking to their friends, or alone staring at their phones; their faces remain blank but their eyes tell everything.
Before I met her, Sophia (not her real name) was just one of these strangers. I didn't know her nor did I care for her. She could have just been one of those who talks so loudly and seemed cheeky. When she smiles, the lines beside her eyes wrinkle. It's a contagious element, and shortly, her friends would be laughing with her.
In class, as we waited for our professor to arrive, I saw her read this book by Mitch Albom. She was deeply engrossed in it, I can tell, as her eyes darted from left to right, and the lines on her face shifted from one emotion to another. I wanted to know her right there and then.
Sophia, I think, is the kind of person who gets along with anybody. After all, she was our class president. She'd be late for class a lot of times, nonetheless our professors find her dependable. She was somebody we look up to and one who we always turn to when we had academic problems. When she talks to us, she never forgets to smile, to joke a bit, and make everything seem better.
She's the Sophia that we know. The cheerful class president. The chatty bookworm who's also a keen writer. The one who loves to listen to Fall Out Boy. The one who loves dogs.
Behind the curtain, however, is the Sophia who battled Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD).