It still gets me wondering about how is it possible for someone to have too many feelings in a go, how they did not explode and how they wallow through the madness of it all.
Saying his name is different: each syllable framed carefully, letting it roll from your tongue in the most perfect manner. The mention of his name will stop you in your tracks, but you noticed that it’s not the same like your pronunciation of it. You do that teenager thing of doodling his name all over your notebook, lecture notes and scraps of paper. Your hand will move to draw the alphabets, spelling out his name carefully from the ink of the pen. His name sends tingly feelings and butterflies to your stomach, and sometimes you find yourself trying to hide your sheepish smile.
Nights became exciting. Eyes are glued to the phone screen, anticipating for text messages notifications to illuminate the phone screen. Late night conversations turned out to be the highlight of the day: from discussing about lectures to sharing football scores to comparing dream cars to talking about future career plans. You would stay up late even to talk just about the most nonchalant things. You would battle with your sleepy eyes and tired self, as long as he is still awake the conversation will carry on.
He became the person that you want to tell just about everything to. You want to tell him about how your day was in general, about the dapper guy in a dress shirt and a pullover knitted sweater that sits three rows away from you in lecture, about the pretty dress that you saw and how badly you want to wear it for the formal Christmas dinner, and the exciting crossover episode of two of your favourite TV shows. You want to tell him about your childhood, so that he can catch the glimpses of how you’ve grown up to the person you are today. From your fall when you tried on your first pair of skates, to your favourite inflatable pool that Mom used to fill up on hot sunny days, to scrapping your knee badly when you fell into the drain, to bird park visits every Saturday with Dad, to smuggling candies and chocolates to your room; all you want is to share the best times of growing up with him.
Still keeping intact, blow after blow.
One of the best things to have is a favourite sweater.
To everyone else, it is just another sweater; perhaps even to you too. But once you pull it over your head, it fits you perfectly. The sweater is knitted together in a symmetrical pattern of a nice shade of blue yarn. It is slightly loose-fitted: it does not hug you tight but neither it is too baggy to make you look sloppy. The sleeves ends perfectly right at the end of your wrists, enough for you to tug it slightly over the palms of your hand for when it gets a little too chilly. The smell of the lavender fabric softener that lingers after each tumble dry gives you the exquisite comfort that you are familiar with.
The threads of the yarn loosens up and the sweater gets a little more worn out after every wash. After a while you no longer wear it out, and you start wearing it to lounge around at the comfort of your home. But somehow, someday you will have to say goodbye to the familiarity that it gives you. Someday, its time span will end there and then, looking too tacky.
Make way for new sweaters with new prints, wonderful designs and pretty colors; let another sweater catch your attention. Let it encapsulate you and keep you warm. Let it make you feel comfortable. Let it make it your new favourite.
Note to self: lose that old sweater.
Hidden away in the corner of the table are letters that were never sent – be it confessions or heartfelt apologies – with words that are stringed carefully. The papers are stained with inks and scratch marks from the pen, denoting the immense anxiety I feel as I scribbled my thoughts. I am usually eager to send out handwritten letters and cards, knowing that the feeling of receiving mail from the letterbox outweighs that of email inbox accessible from computers, smartphones and tables. But there are some letters that I hold back in hesitation, moments before they are sealed into envelopes.
The trajectory truth.
Thoughts that are buried deep.
I cannot help but to think of the consequences that comes after sending those letters out. How would the recipient feel? Would it affect them as much as it affected me as I penned down pages of words? Would it open up stitches of fresh wounds? There is an underlying reason as to why such words were never spoken: clearly, because I know what I would hear and the immense fear that comes together. I want to believe that if they are never spoken, they will never be the truth.
The letters will stay in their respective envelopes, for some things are better left unsaid and unknown.