Long linoleum stretched across the length of this room, with six of them there, he wished he’d never walked in. But winter had crept up on him, the sun set one too many hours too early and he could no longer sleep his life away, his friends wouldn’t let him.
Forced into a study session, he brings his laptop with him, amidst all these new faces, his friend promised he could bring his closest companion along, the one who knew the real him, his only source of comfort — his music.
As he pushes down on the space bar in front of him, the melancholic melody slowly fills the room, reverberating off the table, the walls around him, he loses track of the others. Their squabbles, voices, faces blur into the periphery, overtaken by the soft thrumming of a guitar, by the soothing voice of someone echoing his thoughts. In this music, his music, he gets lost — inducing heightened emotions, and lucid memories, he shuts out the people around him and chases imaginary demons — all of whom looked like him.
Here, the music felt heavier without the constant hum of his car, and the expanse of the cold winding highway ahead — the music became a reminder of the lifestyle left behind — city lights and city streets, chasing adrenaline instead of sleep.
In the gaps between each song, a second or three at a time, he contends with reality. Letting the noise, the presence of those around him sink in. Just as he begins forming associations, the next song begins, and he is transported back into the dungeons of his mind — fighting demons — and slaying them. (Remember, they all look like him.)
The melancholy of each note seeps into his soul, and a mantra forms — he had lost his home, just as he loses everything. Nothing was permanent, it could not be, and so he must leave. He lost his home because he left it before he’d lose it. He left his home before he lost it. But he had to because he was always going to lose it.
He will always lose his home, his life, his loved ones. This life was marked by loss, over and over again. Loss. Loss. Loss.
Sensing the danger of his thoughts, he forces himself to refocus, to take in the song, to drown in it. Each time his thoughts turned this way, he turned to the music and drowned in it. He knew he was drowning, he chose to
drown and drown and drown.
He had been drowning for a while, the light of the sun now only a pinprick in these depths. He had let go, content with drowning, waiting to hit the ocean floor.
The song ends and he realizes what he has accepted, what he had toyed with for months — death.
Drowning was death, and he had become okay with that.
His favourite song now begins, which is to say, it was the saddest song he knew of, and he braces himself to sink further and further and further —
— until someone throws him a line
— “Why are all these songs so miserable”
Jolted back to the now by the faintest whisper, the linoleum and the people around him, he looks for the source and they lock eyes.
She looks at him and then the laptop and then him again, for only a second too long her gaze stumbles and she looks away. But it was enough to stop the ritual, the trance.
Dread sunk into him as he stared into the glow of his laptop, he didn’t expect it to happen, but of course it did. Everything would go wrong eventually. Hitting reply to the most recent entry into his inbox, he closes his laptop and silences his notifications. He could not take more bad news, his head had been pounding all day, getting louder and louder, even the blood in his veins seemed to throw itself against the walls around them. The pounding would not cease and so he puts on his earphones and drifts away. He had to escape, no matter the cost, even if it meant drowning again — the water was quiet, empty, numbing.
Basking in solitude for a few hours, his roommate finally comes round to talk. They had both been hit with the wave of bad news, but his roommate seemed less stricken by it, less unfortunate, less miserable. Taking off his earphones, forcing himself to focus on the here and now, the two begin comparing courses of action and developments. During their conversation, his roommate lets slip that one of their friends, and that friend’s friends had caught wind of the situation — worried, they wanted to help.
He processes this, slowly, staring at the screens in front of him. There were strangers some where across the hall, caught up in his personal misery. He imagines their eyes, their pained expressions, their concern for him and recoils. To meet them would be to assess the depth of the water, a curious exploration, ultimately pointless. They couldn’t help him; pity never helped him. Would learning the depth of the water, make his sinking less pathetic, less inevitable?
Nonetheless, his roommate insists, these people were worried, asking about him — concerned. Giving into the insistence, he agrees to join them, to take his laptop, and show only his friend the problem. He would put up with the sympathetic smiles and well-wishes only so long as it placates them, then he would leave. Return to his room, to the music, to the water.
Walking to the door, he silently braces himself, head-down eyes steeled. He reminds himself he has a friend inside, only one but that was enough. Visions of the water begin to appear, his reflection on the surface, inviting him in —“ this won’t change anything” — his counterpart says and the boy nods in acceptance before stepping forward, into the water — into the room.
Distracted eyes flit his way as he tells his friend of the day he’s had, careful to mumble, to stay in the far corner of the room, to have his vulnerability live and die without notice. Perhaps to conceal this very hurt, he speaks in indifference, as if the calamity has not struck him but another. He speaks of the incident with disregard, with the finality of defeat, his tone stumps his friend leaving no room for further discussion.
And yet, his friend does not give up, rattling a list of questions, insisting on seeing his inbox, on assessing the damage. Preemptively annoyed, he complies and in the time, it takes for him to pull up his inbox he notices another presence behind them — a quite presence, a curious one.
His friend motions for the Jane Doe to come closer, fills her in on the details and waits for her response. Previously intent on ignoring the intruder, he turns around at the sound of her voice, and its familiar resigned disappointment
— “Please tell me you didn’t actually say that”
— It was her. The girl who hated his music. She was here in front of him, avoiding his eyes again definitely but hovering so close, leaning over the laptop intently.
He studies her but she pays no heed, eyes glued to the screen, carefully going over the email exchange, he tracks the micro-expressions in her face— the confusion and disappointment he had seen in many before — but her face always crescendoed at concern. That night at the table, she hated the music but when their eyes caught, he saw the momentary flicker in them, the slip— the concern.
He had been her cause of concern twice now, he wondered when that would stop — where would she draw the line?
Perhaps, finally feeling his gaze on her, she stops scrolling and looks at him. This time, he looks away. Anticipating the end of the interaction, he waits for her to take a step back, to return to her friends, to her life, but instead she stays still. Perfectly still, as they both do.
A moment passes and the silence is broken. His friend interrupts, asking her what she thinks, what could be done and a barrage of other questions. She answers methodically, question by question before pausing at the last one — what now?
Walking into this, he had not thought of that, of what could be done further. He had made peace with the situation, had given in — given up and so the spark in her eyes was intriguing. Pointless he thought, but intriguing. His reflection the one in the water, loomed over him – this won’t change anything. It never did.
In her faint, carefully measured voice, she turns her focus to him and asks if she could help. Could she help him practice what to say next or help him write a draft Could she hear the details. Could she send him everything in a text, so he didn’t forget. She wanted to help. So eagerly. He was taken aback, hurt. Her care reopened wounds he thought he was over. Her care brought him to the surface.
He was back at the water again; now, as the reflection, echoing Could she? Could she? Could she? He saw her looking at him, studying the ripples in the water and stretching her hand out. She wanted to help him. In the end, he couldn’t be saved he knew that, but helped? She wanted to help, could she?
He says yes— to everything—but only to the first one aloud. She lets a quick smile slip and begins working with a ferocity he hadn’t seen before. He couldn’t help but feeling like she planned this, that this interaction was by design. He was walking into a trap, the light, being a bait, and yet he kept walking. The light seemed calm, peaceful not just quiet like the depths of the water.
She could help, he decides. But just this once. Only because she was at the edge of the water. Only because she saw him there. Only because she asked.
After weeks of forecasting and predictions, winter has finally spread its wings, snowy fractals fall to the ground in sheets of white, covering the world as far as his eyes can see. Winter wonderland was finally here, and she was right, it was magical. He wondered if she’d already seen it from her bedroom window, what if she hadn’t looked outside?
Pulling his gaze away from the sight outside, he quickly grabs his phone and shoots her a text—
As he hits send, their most recent exchange catches his eye, fighting back a smile, he scrolls higher and higher rereading their conversation. For some time now, they had fallen into a habit of texting, he would tell her about his day and she would listen. Days became nights filled with fear, anxiety and dread and yet she listened. Skeptical of her patience, he would ask about her, to try and figure out her motivations, but those conversations always seemed clipped, measured, delicate. They would end before they begun, she seemed to like it that way — building walls inside his fortress.
Eventually, the texting became secret conversations in her notes app. Here, he realised she was more honest, their conversations more sustained, more vulnerable, just as delicate. Sitting next to each other each study session, passing her phone front and back, unravelling the other, he had found a sanctuary beside her — a reason to leave the confines of his room, and to resist the allure of the water.
A downwards arrow pops up on his screen, and he quickly taps it awaiting her reply —
Instead, a small red heart blossomed at the bottom of his text, she had liked his message, he wondered how much?
Was she gazing out the window right now? Was she lost in the sight of the snow? Would she come downstairs? Would he see her at all?
He calms his nerves and casts his gaze outside again, she had liked his message, a rare feat truly. Most people liked messages to end conversations, spawning hearts like ilys at the end of texts, throwing it around to soften blows. But she didn’t, she only ever liked one other text in all these months, one about what he wanted to achieve in life, their only conversation about his future. He had stopped believing in the future a few years ago, but now that he’d told her about it, it felt more real. With her, it felt real.
He asked her too what she wanted, but she was coy. Never admitting to concrete goals, it was a shame given her potential, to not endeavour for more. He expressed his surprise, confused, she confessed she held a disinterest for success but not ambition. It was then that he learnt she was chasing something peculiar, unattainable — moral perfection —and she was convinced everyone else was too. He realized her priorities were all wrong. That was the first night, he began to understand where the look in her eyes, the ferocity, the determination stemmed from — she needed to be good, there was nothing above that.
On late nights their conversations often fell into this rhythm of unravelling the other, of confessing and unbecoming — of witnessing vulnerability and staying. Admittedly, he was constantly the one coming undone, the one seeking comfort, the one needing help. He was always the one at the edge of the water, about to submit. She must have noticed because soon he would meet her there, skipping stones and waiting for him. Pointing out the ripples on the surface, measuring the depth of the water, telling him it was too deep. Over and over again, even when she dipped her own feet in, scared, she reminded him it was too deep. He didn’t want to leave her by the water, all by herself, and so he never went in again. She was at the top, and he wanted to stay there. As long as she did. Only as long as she did.
Still looking outside the window, fighting the water with views of snow, he hears a flurry of rushed footsteps. It could be anyone really, he knows, but the urgency of those steps sounded like someone he wishes was there. And so, he gives in to hope just this once and lets a quiet prayer escape, carefully mumbled under his breath —
— Please let it be her. Please let her walk in, and please let her stay.
The door creaks open and he turns around just in time to see her walk through, beaming, no, emanating joy. Her smile spreads across the room with laughter breaking out, as everyone watches her make her way to the window, completely entranced, mesmerized. She doesn’t shrink at the attention, or their judgement, instead continues rushing towards the windowpane. With an unobstructed view of the snowfall acquired, she finally stills. Her excitement now quietens and the rest of the room chuckling looks away returning to their tasks. He however, remaining transfixed, follows her gaze, hoping to see what she does in the world outside. He realizes he was doing this a lot, studying her and trying to see what she saw in the world around them— he wanted to find her hope, he wanted to protect it. He wanted to protect her, but this part he could not say just yet.
Awestruck for a full five minutes, she finally steps away, glimmer in her eyes, still lost in the magic of winter, in the shine of the snow, whispering under her breath —
— It’s so beautiful. It’s always so beautiful.
She stays fixated on the falling snow, he stays focused on her, in perfect harmony, they each find peace.
For the first time that year, he was glad winter had arrived. She was right, their views were beautiful, he couldn’t wait to do this every night. For the first time in his life, he admits, with her, he could do this forever.
Fall in love again and again
i. They were tumbling down the hill again, fourth time already. His ski poles had fallen into the bushes, and he swore he twisted his leg, but she was laughing. Face flushed, a rosy pink, she wanted to give it another try. And so, they did.
ii. He was in her class, skipping his again. She was concerned, trying to get him to leave. They were both smiling and fighting and texting. They would do this the whole semester. By the end, she would even go to his.
iii. Falling asleep for micro naps, the movie was halfway through. Pausing, he tried to wake her, but she mumbled something about sleep being dangerous, about losing control. He smiled and pressed play, patiently waiting for her to wake up.
iv. Tears a flow, mid panic spiral, she disappears, her texts say she’s fine, but she never promised, only asking him not to worry. Worried, he goes looking for her. They sit together; her occasional sob and his soothing voice breaks the almost-silence, she shivers as she cries. He drapes his jacket across her shoulders; they talk until then moment passes.
v. His meeting almost ends, anxious he doesn’t say a word. She looks at him and gestures to speak. He tries but the words get caught in the throat. They exchange a look, a plea for help — she advocates for him. He trusts her with his life and maybe more.
kianamaiart
origamiaround
dededos
stormborns
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