Yearbook Write-Up: Marie Abigail Pacho

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Abby.

The syllables will slip off your tongue like dew drops off a grass blade: quiet and simple, effortless and docile. But then again, what’s in a name? For this girl is all but mere.

From the strands of her hair to the depths of her soul, she is art — an exquisite depiction of life and love. Guided by the stars and fuelled by the burning passion in her veins, Abby knows what she wants and will stop at nothing until she gets it.

She is constantly on the search for the person she has yet to become. However, the true beauty of this girl lies in her journey. It’s in her patience and her hope, her contagious enthusiasm and her unfaltering dedication. Her love for life has her constantly on the edge of her seat. Watch as she chases after the sunset; she could go around the world a thousand times without even a hint of despair in her eyes. And no matter how far she’s gone or how high she’s climbed, she’ll always have her values intact. If there’s one thing we could all learn from her, it’s that we should guard our beings, not our hearts.

She may not know this yet, but Abby carries magic within her. Listen closely to the words she speaks, and marvel at her creations — that’s the closest we’ll ever get to anything pure and sincere in this world.


It’s always a pleasure to write about such wonderful people. Good luck with your thesis, Abby!

More Than Just Punctuation Marks

I remember the first letter you ever gave me — the one you wrote shortly before you asked me out on our first date. You said our after-midnight car rides going home felt like comfy punctuation marks at the end of drawn-out paragraphs. I smiled to myself for the next few days, taking comfort in the fact that you felt the same way, that you enjoyed those light-hearted one-on-ones as much as I did.

We pored over each other’s lives with burning curiosity and bashful restraint. You told me about your violin recitals, and how you struggled with stage fright. You told me about your love for classic Russian literature, and about your favorite book: The Brothers Karamazov, by Fyodor Dostoyevsky.

In return, I shared with you some of my stories, as well. I can’t recall half of them now, but I do remember how easily my tongue untied for you and slipped off words I never dared to let anyone hear before. I remember hoping you couldn’t see me smiling in the dark, hoping I was keeping my composure while you, that cute upperclassman with the glasses and the biceps, sat just inches away from me. I remember the sinking feeling I would have in my chest once we got to the parking lot — more so when we would part ways in the elevator. I would go to bed night after night wondering if it could ever get any better than that, if we would ever amount to more than just placid endings. And we did.

Eventually, you became more than just punctuation marks. Your name saturated my sentences, and left me with paragraphs that started and ended with you. I found myself in a brand new chapter — one set in an ideal world, with the ideal man. I never wanted it to end. I would hold my breath at every space, every line break, and every page turn we’d stumble upon. I wavered between the eagerness to start a brand new day with you, and the fear of finding myself alone in bed the next morning.

I’m not sure if you noticed, but I kept my guard high up, as I have learned to do so from my previous relationship. Never trust anyone, never turn your back for just a second. Secretly, I waited for the catch — the bitter icing on top of this sweet, sweet cake. You were too perfect to be true, too perfect to last. I knew I’d eventually have to wake up from this enchanting dream and face the harsh reality of this harrowing world — that all good things must come to an end. But that moment never came.

Instead, each day greeted me with the gentleness of your smile and the warmth of your arms. I woke up each morning more hopeful than the day before. My fears unfolded into confidence and eagerness for new beginnings and new chapters. Ultimately, you stopped being the words to my sentences, and became my muse, my inspiration. I stopped writing about you, and started writing because of you.

I stopped trying to make sense of everything, and just gave into it. I accepted your love without the questions and the scepticism, and let the warmth encompass every last bit of my tarnished soul.

It was the love I so longed for — a love that isn’t selfish, a love that doesn’t demand attention. It’s the kind of love that sets me free, the kind of love that encourages me to chase after my own dreams without feeling guilty, because you, too, are out there busy pursuing your own.

Your love has become my home — the safe haven that patiently waits for me at the end of each day, and pushes me out into the world the next morning to be the best version of myself. You are the kind voice that assures me that I am enough — that I am more than enough.

In the fourth of your series of letters, you wrote to me, “Let’s revel in what we have and believe, without doubt, that it will grow into something wonderful, in spite of imaginary odds — promising or otherwise.” My darling, look how far we’ve grown. Look how magnificent this all turned out to be. For you were once just a tiny question mark resting quietly on a page of my book — and now, the dedication on the very first page.