the story

There's so much that hasn't been said yet.

There's something about every year that reads just like a novel with beginning and end. The year almost seems structured to be story-like: the climax always comes at the end, and the freedom afterwards is the falling action.

It's dizzying to imagine how far back that scripted beginning seems now.

It was a February morning at the top of the spectator stands: one of those days that feels like dawn in more ways than one--like a beginning. A friend came to me, to ask if I had met you. I was glad to inform her that we had, and she went on to mention how strikingly much we reminded her of each other. Something about telling stories about the stars.

"You must make good friends with him, okay?"

I remember the thought I thought in response to this. Is she trying to matchmake us? Does she think we're compatible or something...?

It made me curious, what she saw in you that made her think that way. I suppose I could tell from the day she said it; we were more similar than I was with most others--outwardly at least--in mannerism and speech and maybe smile.

Our first private conversation came rather later than I'd have imagined. We walked to the station together. It was slightly stunning--all I had heard about you before had been long lyrical praises over the awards you had to your name. And so I was slightly afraid to seem uncouth around you; I spoke cordially, and we discussed the girls and guys and the differences between us--and I told you how much the RI guys amazed me. I was formal, and I pretended an interest in current affairs, because I felt as if that was your topic.

I remember two very clear thoughts that came to me as I heard you speak and my replies came surprisingly easily--so easily, for a first-conversation:

1. How funny, you seem to want to make sure there are no awkward silences.
2. Given enough time between us, I know I'll fall in love with you.

And I was right in both cases.

I still remember those days in April, the year so tall and complexly-branched and blossoming. I remember watching from afar, wondering: what are the chances that he'll see me the way I see him? I remember worrying, about how there were girls you saw far more frequently than I, and how I expected that you'd take interest in one of them long before you even realised I existed. I remember worrying that you'd never know I was there, always, however often.


Is this too early? Is this too soon?


I held onto that paper crane. That was the first day I gave up denying, and admitted to my heart that I liked you. I still have it with me. In my file. Right where it was that one-odd year ago. I only told one person the truth, but tell it I did, and instantly it grew worse.

I used to comfort myself by saying: Just another crush. Just one of those short things that last a month and then fade without any trace. I'm not unfamiliar with them.

But I waited it out, and I realised this was taking too long.

Late April, there were tears I hid from everyone. It was like nothing I knew--watching everything happen so fast between you and another while I sat helpless and pretended to enjoy it just like everyone else did, though it hurt my face and hurt my heart even more to do so, to pull my lips into that laughing smile--so much I'm certain it showed.

I remember the struggle, of knowing how you were so blinded to me because you, just like me, had found someone wonderful to hold your gaze upon. I tried to tell myself, for sure, that my chances were zero and that I should just save myself all this suffering by giving you up. But then you led me on and also my friends led me on and hope led me on, and I wanted to believe so badly, and I grew myself a sparse and straggly, blossoming, garden--

--that was destroyed by the deep frost of unprecedented winter, flung from the high precipice by the claws of cold that were neither your fault nor mine, but the fault of the engineer who constructed the human heart and the way it learns to feel...

I never thought you'd save me. It was the last thing I expected, you cruel thing with no inkling of how bad you were making me die inside. I was certain you were a monster, a monster with guilt; I was certain she was too, and all my friends, and I was certain that the engine of evolution was the greatest monster of all. Perhaps you should never have spoken anyone's name on that night.

2 a.m., I remember how late it was before the ceiling stopped seeming like it were made of ice, the world through my window a wasteland stripped bare by wind. Do you know how it is, to stare at a blue ceiling, and feel an empty shell of yourself, a husk without the substance that makes it special, makes it worthwhile for the world? I was cracked open by thought and regret and hate.

But save me you did, as I always wished you would. Yet you did, yet you did. I didn't think it so easy for a mind to change. I feared, and my friends bred that rightful fear in me too--that it was a lie for my comfort, a lie meant to set me straight before you vanished without a trace, again, to pursue prior dreams.

I can be sure now that it was no lie. I owe you; we owe each other. Prices we can never pay, hopes we could work lifetimes for.