espeoncat

a whole lot of maybes.

the fresh scent of rain hangs in the air. summer's first shower. you're here beside me, placing one foot in front of the other, both hands in your jean pockets. white starchy shirt, baggy trousers. humming a tune that i faintly recognise. moon river. a tad bit lower pitched than how the original one went. a faint smile flits across my lips.

its a strangely quiet summer night, especially considering that it's a friday. then again, this part of the city is usually untouched by the noisy nightlife and boisterous crowds that seems to plague all big cities. a pocket of silence. untouched. an empty road where we can walk on, save for the occasional car that purrs past. you make a big fuss of diving toward the side of the road every time that happens. i laugh the first time you do it, and strangely enough, the next few times too. i guess even i have the capacity to change.

the first few drops come slowly. you hold your hand out to do a rain check, right as a drop lands on your glasses. its an amusing sight, to say the least. uncharacteristic of me, i break out into a laugh, and you grin back.

and then the rain comes on in full force.

taking refuge in a nearby bus stop, wearily inspecting our wet clothes. summer is definitely here, alright. in the warm flourescent light, you offer me tissues as you talk about your future.

“to be able to say 'i'm home!', and take off my shoes, wash my hands and face and sink into a chair.” you're staring off into the distance, far off into the night. i notice a new pimple on the ridge of your nose, right where your glasses rest.

“i'd build a bookcase, and fill it with books, and once it's full i'll build another one, and another one.” your eyes gleam in this fragile summer night. a few moths flutter around the gentle glow of the shelter's light.

“i'd be able to do whatever i wanted in that little house of mine.”

i smile. your words suffuse my body with a strange kind of gentle warmth, even as the slightly chilly summer rain showers on the rest of the city, washing away the remnants of the past few months from my mind.

our tiny pocket of warmth and light.

“then, i'll be there to say 'welcome home', if you'd like.”

i could see your eyes widening by just a fraction, right before you break into biggest smile i've seen you show and pull me into your arms.

to me, forever ago

so maybe you're tired of waiting around. tired of waiting for your life to finally begin. but you're stuck in a cycle of self hatred, stuck in stasis. all roads lead to Rome, but your mind keeps lying to you. whispering in your ear that you're going around in circles, that the loop will never end no matter how much you try. so you bleed yourself dry in the privacy of a chatroom full of strangers, with only the taste of your own tinny blood to keep you company. every night you fall apart, unravel at the seams, only to pick up the pieces when the morning breaks. an imperfect attempt at patching your broken self up. and it cuts like a dull knife when you see everyone else around you moving forward with such confidence, shining brightly in their own little moments. creating a youth full of memories.

but maybe just this once, trust that the present you can make the right choice. that there is hope in the future. and even as emotions, people and the bitter, honeyed layers of familiarity you've wrapped yourself in fades away and falls apart, as they inevitably will, you will continually find strength in the little victories and small triumphs of life. that everyone grows at their own pace, and there's nothing wrong with taking just a little bit more time to find yourself. after all, we've still got a long way to go. it'll all make sense when you're older.

at least, i hope.

but im so scared of getting old.

bees, one

the music is loud. theyre blaring that one beabadoobee song through the cheap stereo system. its tinny and sounds an octave higher than usual. must be the alcohol. probably, right? she finds it mildly amusing. for someone so antisocial to be in such a situation, again no less, is an achievement in and of itself. oh well, at least they have good taste in music.

you dont seem to be enjoying yourself, he shouts a near-scream into her ears. she winces and takes another sip. the plastic cup feels flimsy in her hands, and she nearly crushes it as someone bumps into her.

i am, dont you worry, she smiles a half-smile, knowing that the boredom in her eyes is barely visible in the dim fairy lights of the flat. turning away to pour herself more vodka, the only way she can possibly stand the god forsaken volume of this party, she stares wistfully out of the balcony window. the night sky is obscured by sweaty bodies talking, drinking, laughing.

she sighs. the night is young, and here she is wasting a perfectly good saturday night on booze and... and what? she is too easily swayed, she curses silently. aware that she is not completely there anymore, she downs the rest of cup and stumbles out onto the balcony. relief in the form of a light breeze and the lazy quiet of a weekend night washes over her. she smiles and closes her eyes. the two constants at parties seems to be alcohol and balconies. this isnt the first time shes had to put a glass barrier between herself and a whole horde of wasted teens before, and it clearly isnt going to be the last either. trust her best friend to have to be in THAT college party phase that all lonely, horny teenagers inevitably go through.

she is in the midst of tipsily sorting through what she could possibly put together out of their starved fridge for supper when a soft cough and the bitter smell of tobacco interrupts her thoughts. oh boy. her horoscope today DID say something about meeting “someone unpleasant at someplace equally so”, and the stars have rarely been wrong before. disregarding the self-fulfilment aspect of such fortune-telling bullshit, of course, does she really believe in it?? even she has had doubts. but then again, it gives her a satisfying sense of control in her daily routine, so she really cant complain.

lowkey dreading having to reject the advances of yet another tipsy fuckboy, she sighs and gives the loudest WHAT she could muster.

for as long as she could remember, she loved observing eyes. the colour didn't matter, and neither did the shape nor the size. not even the person attached to the eyes mattered to her. she was a purist, and also, troublingly, a perfectionist.

eyes were the windows to the soul, she was dead certain. and after years and years of staring at eyes, during casual conversations, parent-teacher meetings, project presentations, and everything else in between, she was well-versed in reading the information that lies in them. the whites that sometimes have flecks of red and tendrils of crimson tell of anxiety, anger or sadness. but the irises held what the subconscious desired the most. one look into your eyes, and she could tell your deepest desire. it was magically ridiculous. but it worked, as all her friends vehemently maintained. it was crazy. for all that anyone knew, she was a witch in disguise. and, of course, everyone knew.

and that was why she fell in love with the boy. his eyes were the most beautiful she had ever laid hers on. if you had ever seen pictures of nebulas in space, that was exactly how his irises looked like. they were expanses of superhot gas that were frozen in time in the melanin of his iris. rainbows of refraction seemed to shimmer in his vision. a kaleidoscope of supernatural colour danced around his face. she loved him as much as she loved looking into his eyes.

and yet it hurt so much to look into them, for she knew that, for him, she could never compare to her. ever.

the first and last time i ever told you i loved you was the first time we went to a concert together. it was one of those intimate, small scale events, held in a quiet bar-turned-gig venues around the outskirts of the city. the night was airy, the drinks cooly refreshing, small hits of alcohol gently blurring the senses. their set was surprisingly extravagant for such a small band, with multicoloured diodes scattering a confetti of colours across the room. it was a local indie rock band, playing many of their favourite hometown hits. but their last song for the evening was a new one, something about “love and loss”. typical, or so i thought.

but then the guitar solo came on. the two of us bathed in the warm afterglow of the dimming stage lights. light-headed, slightly woozy, you were pressed against me. your hands clutching my jacket, mouth curled up into the slightest of smiles. everything in the universe seemed to have aligned perfectly. i felt a kind of happiness that id never experienced before. you smell nice, i think i must have murmured, leaning my head against yours. and as we swayed along to the ebb and flow of the echoing music, everything else seemed to slip away, leaving only the two of us there, sharing a moment that i could only wish would last forever.

as the final few notes lingered in the air, with my heart bursting at its seams, i leaned in and whispered i love you.

and you looked up at me, eyes wide and gleaming, and said that you loved them too.

you sit in your room at 5am in the morning, listening to the rain patter against your faded windows. the very first rays of dawn are peeping through the blinders. in your hands is your switch, joycons dirty from years of use. sweat stains and fingerprint smudges. matt plastic, black against your blue bedsheets. a square beacon of light. kk slider's trademark morning song murmurs a quiet tune through the shitty speakers. marshal is still up at this time, sitting on the bench, admiring the stars. you click A, and he comments on how surprised he is to find you still awake. he's worried for your health. he's worried you aren't getting enough sleep. he gives you a gift, a pair of sunglasses. you smile in spite of the cold. it isn't very cold anyways, you have a blanket and a hoodie on. but it is cold. you click R and select the happy reaction. marshal returns the favour. you're happy that at least someone cared. even if it was just a game. you're happy. you tell yourself that youre happy.

youre happy.

you lie back on your pillow, arms outstretched. after a while, you grab your eevee plushie and close your wet eyes.

how long more do you have to wait, you wonder. the rain gets steadily louder, as the morning stretches on languidly.

loneliness is killing you, but you don't know how to fix it.

she double clicked the spotify icon and smiled at me. it was a strange kind of night, where the silence didnt feel all that lonely and the darkness didnt feel all that depressing. in fact, it was a peaceful kind of quiet, the kind of tranquillity that one experiences when you are finally back in your own room after a long business trip abroad.

“this is one of my favourites.” she scrolled through her many playlists, all named after her past loves. cat names, dog names, boys and girls. i recognised them all. after all, we made most of these playlists together. she settled on one that merely said My Playlist #57 and double clicked on a song.

as her stereo speakers hummed out the first notes of her breakup song, she closed her eyes and fidgeted with her bracelet. our bracelet. her body moved along to the slight notes that seemed to hang in the midnight air, suspended.

what am i to you? she opened her eyes and stared into mine. the voice wasnt hers, but it was almost as if she had asked it.

tell me darling true, “music is amazing isnt it?” she smiled. “this particular song reminds me of new york.” bathed in the warm glow of her lamplight, her softly shaded face wore a look of tired sadness. “and of him.” a look i hadnt seen in a long time.

her lips moved along to the song. her tears came unexpectedly, and yet i sat there beside her, unable to move a muscle.

“why am i so unlucky with love?” she murmured. another breakup. this one came unexpectedly, when it was supposedly going so well too. i held her hand, as we both stared off wistfully into the night. she clutched it tighter, wordlessly thanking me for being here for her. just like this, since forever and always.

it was our usual saturday night. the usual place, the usual time. the only difference was the music.

except that it wasnt.

the last few notes of the song lingered. i sat there, wishing so badly that she wasnt singing the words, but asking me that question instead.

i want to see you

i sit in the kitchen at 2am alone, sipping a cold cup of mocha latte. flipping my phone around in my hands, fidgeting with the keyring at the back of its cover, i stare off into the near distance, eyes glazed over. the grimy windows refract what little moonlight that filters in, casting swimming shadows of leaves that shift along to the rhythm of the night. the leaking tap by the kitchen sink drips and drops to the ticking of the clock. a little too synchronised, unsettlingly so. the lights are off, and the dishes remain unwashed, collecting water and breeding mosquitos under the swampy darkness. it is a silent night, made quiet by the countless of weeks of quarantine that is guaranteed to cull any desire for activity in my neighbours, who were already habitually deep, and early, sleepers.

forcing my lazy ass to get up, i move over to the sink to inspect the damage. its been weeks since you came over, and as expected, the sink was filled to the brim with dirty tableware. i sigh. reaching over to grab a mug, my hands brush over something hairy and i yelp. something falls over and crashes on the tiles, splintering glass all over. a loud snarl, as i hurry to the light switch. there stood ruby on the chair, fixing me with her usual semi-pissed resting-bitch-face all cats perpetually have on. groaning, i go over to check the mug that now lies resting in pieces. a coloured shard. i pick it up and squint.

your face on it, smiling broadly. hair a little too messy for your standards. black on white on black.

of course it had to be your mug. the one we got with our traumatised faces printed on, after one too many rollercoaster rides at USS. the one that you always used, whether it be on our bedside table or as we binge-watched netflix. the one that smelled of ground coffee, and faintly, very faintly, still of you.

i couldn't move, even if i wanted to.

and in the echoing silence of the night, punctuated only by overlapping sounds of time and water, i clutched my head in my hands and wept.

inking intimacy

the needle threads the skin, two pinpricks of silver that glints in the afterglow of a setting sun.

in your hands they look like a singular metal chopstick, those kinds desperate housewives use as a last resort to provide a stilt of support for their oh so pitifully wilting garden variety plants.

except skinnier and sharper, like the tones of your voice and the lines of your skin. muscles, sinews, undulating plains of post-modern green bliss.

and your hands, moving with mechanical, methodical intensity, colour me black and blue with the scars of your indifference.

no

“i guess i just bought into the idea that i don't deserve happiness. I've hurt so many people by being too close with them and then fucking it up in the heat of a moment. and then they leave me feeling lonelier than before. its not that bad though. at least, i don't think it is. eventually, you get used to the loneliness that wraps you up like a cocoon. you become comfortable in it. not that it makes it hurt any less, but it becomes your default state. you want to break out of it, but its a bad habit that clings to you like cellophane. you can try to get to know more people, try to make friends, try to form emotional connections, but its an uphill battle, because you're not USED to it. you're used to being alone, consumed by your thoughts. you're used to sitting in bed all day, fighting off demons with books or youtube videos or games or netflix.” he looks up at me and forces a smile. “and since you studied psychology, you know that the brain always falls back into old habits. old habits die hard. old habits are easy, familiar. its like one of those wooden souvenir statuettes you bought 10 years ago that calms you down when you have it, that you can feel in your hand and know every scratch, know it's shape and contour perfectly, and feel reassured of how familiar it feels.” “surely you realise that—” “of course i do.” his eyes, brimming with sadness, black yolk running, stared back into mine. “i know I'm fetishising my sadness. i know what that entails. its a vicious cycle, a trap that i can't crawl out of.” he slowly takes out the ring he had on his middle finger. it was a beautiful ring, gold with a diamond embedded in its middle. he played with it in his hands, refusing to make eye contact. “its easier to stay sad. its easier to not do anything to change it, because changing it takes effort, and there isn't even a guarantee that you'd emerge from it better and happier than before.” another one of these cases. i wondered if there was a pattern here that made so many people fall into the same despairing situation, and that made me sad. “so doc,” he smiled, “am i depressed, or just a lazy sack of shit?”