Author: Fangjie

the drink stall auntie refills me a cup of grape juice, completely free of charge, when I toppled and spilt the cup that I paid for right upon receiving it in primary school, and asking me if I was okay;

the elderly stranger beside me on the bus back home passes me a sheet of tissue after I had finished my bag of potato chips, because I had dirtied my mouth (I wasn’t supposed to be eating on the bus);

the schoolmate whom I barely knew ran after me, as I ran for the bus, because I had unknowingly dropped my bus card on the floor, just to return it to me;

the friend who doesn’t speak or text much, but always forwards me articles and emails of the things she knows that I will be interested in;

the closer friend who dropped her work temporarily to ask if I needed to call, when I sent a brief text telling her that I was feeling a little lost;

the significant other who after a tiring day, walked 1km at 11pm alone in the dark when you dislike the dark, to meet me just because I had a rough day;

you hold gently, someone’s heart, without them knowing that you have ever held them at all.

At night, I crawl into bed tired. I’ve had a long and tiring day; my eyes are closing, my limbs are sore. Somewhere deep within, my heart is aching from the insensitive remarks that others have made; careless words like weightless pieces of paper tossed into thin air, leaving behind paper cuts everywhere.

I watch you stare intently at your computer screen, your brows slightly furrow and you gaze fixedly at small, inconspicuous black words on the screen; you blink, and then you yawn, and then you turn around and smile at me. I love the way you smile, like the rainbow after thundery showers, like fresh laundry after a sweaty game, like 11am coffee on a carefree Friday morning.

I shut my iPad down after the last few pages of readings. Sometimes, I think ancient writers are too verbose. I just read a sixteen page document which I could easily have summarised into two, with language much too archaic, vocabulary much too formal for today’s casual context. I climb into bed, and a few moments later I feel the warmth of your skin against mine, your fingers tracing circles on the nape of my neck. I turn around to face you, and the next moment my eyes gaze into yours and I am completely lost in them; I close my eyes and you close yours, and then our lips meet. And they intertwine, over and over again.

Time flies, and unknowingly we both drift off to sleep. Falling asleep is like succumbing to an itching temptation; initially you protest, but suddenly you give in, and you give in all at once that when I wake up at 3am, I wonder how I ever fell asleep in the first place. I turn around and watch you sleep. Your eyes don’t close completely, but your brows are relaxed peacefully. Your chest gently rises up and down, and then suddenly your lips twitch. I trace my fingers across them, feeling the softness of your skin, the warmth of your breath. You stir, and then your eyes open midway as you battle with the drowsiness of sleep. You ask me what time it is; there’s still plenty of time left to sleep.

In the morning, I leave the room alone because I have a morning class, while you are still lying in bed. I kiss your forehead before I go. The rays of sunlight shine on you when I open the door; radiance, just like how you are radiance in my life. And then, I gently close the door behind me, catching the last glimpse of you before we are separated by a thick sheet of wood.

Then I turn away, and leave.

But I know that I’ll be coming back to you tonight again, soon.

I’m starting to think that one day I will run out of words to write.

One day, I will have already said everything that I wanted to say to you. There are only so many words I know, so many combinations of phrases. The letters will start to look more and more like the same, until it feels like loving you is routine.

One day, I will have already known every inch of your skin. There are only so many parts of you I can love, so many different ways I can love you physically. My kisses will start to feel more and more like the same, until it feels like loving you is routine.

One day, I will have known you like I know myself; you, vice versa. Newness will fade like a wisp into thin air, and we will question how many more “firsts” we can do. There will come a time whereby I will wonder to myself, “When is the last time we have done something for the first time?” Hopefully, perhaps by then my bucket list will already have been fully checked. Hopefully, we will by then have settled down into blissful stability, that we may look back on the ferocious waves of doubt and uncertainty we now experience and congratulate ourselves for braving through all the storms, that in the end all of our worries proved to be unnecessary.

Yet, may this routine be the most blissful one. This routine, my shelter, my saviour, my solace. This routine, where the greatest happiness and wildest adventures are shared. This routine, where the unhappy days turn for the better. This routine, until death does us apart.

Routine is not necessarily equivalent to boredom. Days like this, I cling on to the hopes that healthy routines are necessary. That I will embrace the same you that I have loved, and continue to love, through it all, the same spirit, the same soul.

In the end, may I love you to the end just like the first time I have loved you; all day, every day. That this warmth stays the same, like it always has been.

但愿如此。

Baby,

We come up with stupid jokes for the simplest things in life, covering up taboo topics with lame slangs that cannot be properly said with a straight face. You like to laugh a lot and when you laugh, your eyes laugh together with you. You like to playfully hit me and when you do, I feel the affection that comes from you.

We talk a lot about the future, and the past three days were fruitfully spent figuring many things out together. Some plans were made, others were unfortunately foiled; I saw you experience one of the best first things in life, and also saw you bravely endure one of the most difficult pains. You are strong, steadfast, and you love yourself so well even though you have many reasons not to. Because of that, it is so easy to love you.

I like how close we are to each other, even though our houses are so far apart. As you fall asleep in my arms, your breathing slows down to a gentle, therapeutic rhythm which calms me and all of my storms. You exhale into my neck as your mind wanders in your wonderland, sending chills down my spine and goosebumps all over me. Your scent, that of fresh soap, is mildly sweet but completely mesmerising and as your body relaxes and your muscles loosen as you fall into a deeper sleep, I hold you a little tighter because I don’t know what is going on in your head.

I wake up from a nightmare and find you still peacefully asleep beside me. I hold your arms a little tighter, and then you stir gently and wake up. You ask me if I’ve been awake all this while because it’s already 5am, but I tell you that I only just did so because a nightmare had robbed me of my sleep. You kiss me and we go back to sleep, and my nightmare never did return.

You have one of the nicest, most understanding roommates I ever know. In the early morning, your roommate leaves the room, leaving us to our own devices. There is everything to be unhappy about with a room intruder, but your roommate is a blessing and an amazing person, just like you.

Things have never felt so right in a long time. Not everything has gone smoothly between us, but so far through it all, every encounter we have faced has ended with nothing short of an amazing process.

I can’t wait to overcome more challenges, and experience the best things in life with you.

Towards the end of every year, I am reminded that things rapidly change; how people come and go, how you adopt a completely different routine, how new things come and old things go.

This year was groundbreaking in terms of change. This year, I say goodbye to mandatory school uniforms and stringent timetable schedules. I say goodbye to a fixed group of classmates, and hello to hostel life. Old acquaintances become newfound friends, age is no longer that big of a deal because virtually everyone I know is older than me. I learn new skills as my age hits the legal baseline for doing certain things, I gain greater independence and experience doing things on my own. I socialise with brand new people, and realise that closeness is not about how long you’ve known each other, but how well your hearts connect. I finally broaden my extremely limited cultural circle after being stuck the past 19 years of my life socialising and interacting with people solely of Chinese ethnicity, of my own kind, and started to understand and appreciate people of other races and ethnicities.

I have so much to be thankful for in the short course of one year. A year ago, I would never have dared to imagine the magnitude of change that I was about to face in the next 365 days. During this period of time, I have gained working and internship experience, an eye-opening experience for a freshly graduated college student. I have experienced the unfairness of the work force, and how unprotected and wild society can be. I have done part time tutoring, and it felt surreal that I was on the teaching end instead of the end where I was being taught, as was the case just one year ago. It felt surreal to be addressed as “teacher”, and to be responsible for someone else’s grades when a year ago I struggled to be responsible for my own. It was almost unbelievable when I received a Teacher’s Day present from one of my students. I have feared, endured, and survived ‘A’ level results day, one of the most horrifying days that one can ever anticipate. I have once feared that I will never be able to make it to University, but today I look back at my past and am grateful that I have pulled through and survived the ordeal. I experience a brand new schooling experience, a campus so big that shuttle buses are required to transport students from class to class. Many students drive, and there are so many carparks available. There are abundant food choices, ridiculous sport facilities, and freedom beyond my wildest imagination. They say that University is the best time to mingle and socialise, to meet new people. I couldn’t agree more. For me, staying on campus is almost a necessary aspect of completing the University experience. It’s given me so much to look forward to, so much convenience, so much to love and a very special someone.

I am in a new relationship, and in many aspects I am heartened to see myself becoming a better partner. My first has taught me things I should never do, and to never settle. The good thing about having your heart broken once is that you know the signs of what to do, and what to avoid. In this aspect, my first heartbreak was a blessing in disguise for someone much better, a relationship much healthier. I couldn’t be happier.

I have new friends and we do things that could never have been done a year ago. Late night suppers and drink sessions, 3am confessions and impromptu dinners and lunches. The good thing is that everyone is willing to talk, but the bad thing is that you’ll never know where you stand in different people’s lives because everyone has too many friends; you don’t want to treat them as too close, if they aren’t willing to reciprocate and do the same for you.

Everything is still somewhat new, and will take more time to sink in. Right now, I just wanted to take a moment to be grateful for these changes, and to give myself a pat on the back for doing more than just surviving these changes; I have sailed the waves, and in my own opinion have done quite an excellent job with coping with all these changes.

Some days, I feel so small and inconspicuous. I feel mundane, the weight of routine weighing down on my excitement, going about the same processes day in day out. Wake up, and do the same morning routine over and over again. See the same few people with little variation, do the same things, talk about the same topics. It’s not that I don’t appreciate these people, I really do, and life without them would be a hundred times worse; it’s just that sometimes I question if this is what’s in for me—could there ever be a change, and if so, would I really embrace change?

Occasionally, you see different sides of the same people. You see the girl whom you once thought was quiet and reserved, talking endlessly about things that might be inappropriate a little too loudly, under the influence of alcohol. You see the boy who is usually loud and a little rowdy, have a soft and caring side, a seriousness that is very attractive, alongside characteristics that he usually does not display. You see the gentlest of people cook up a storm, and the noisiest subside into a gentle breeze, a light drizzle after a thunderstorm.

And suddenly, everything becomes a lot less boring. Oftentimes, we try too hard to conceal the parts of ourselves that we are too afraid to expose. We try so hard to build up a facade of our own image, an image that we wish to be associated with, even when it’s nothing like who you really are. We have a perfect society full of imperfect people, and I wonder why we bother to try so hard to fit in when nobody ever fully fits in.

I have a hangover. My entire body aches and my muscles scream for help. I have dirty laundry all over the floor, and my lips are stained red with the raspberry vodka I had last night. I look like I have lipstick on. My hair is a complete mess, my eyes are tired and dazed. There is a bruise on my face just below my lips, and I can’t remember how I got it. Looks like a battle scar, but I’m absolutely positive I didn’t pass out last night. It hurts, but not as much as some of the things I’ve heard. It’s true that alcohol makes one a lot more honest, and sometimes candour is the best way to hurt, to internally kill someone else. But then, I may have been just too sensitive, as I have always been more inclined to be. I put too much emphasis on words; I let words break me too easily. Some people’s words are so cheap. I’ve spent an entire lifetime coming up with the right words to say and I still struggle with my words, so how is it that certain people can throw their words around so carelessly, like it didn’t matter at all?

There are a lot of areas that I think I am inadequate in. In fact, I am inadequate in every single plausible area of life that I can possibly associate myself with. I am flawed in every area, every nook and cranny of my existence. Even though I know that the people around me are equally flawed, it doesn’t ease the discomfort in me knowing that at certain points in time unbeknownst to me, I have made someone unhappy, whether minor or major, and there is absolutely nothing I can do about it. I hate that feeling of disappointing someone, and I cannot decide whether I would rather have their disappointment in me verbally conveyed, or kept in silence. Both seem equally hurtful.

Amongst all my insecurities and flaws, all my mistakes and challenges against the law, I would like to believe that my wellbeing is being more than deservingly taken care of. My life, in all ways, is privileged. I am happily attached to someone who treats me like I am everything that matters, and the reason behind that is a question I will spend my life to answer. I am privileged to be able to send and receive genuine messages of love and affection, oftentimes with a hint of playfulness and naughtiness, but love at its most sincere form nonetheless. I am privileged to be given a gift with my words, how my words flow so smoothly, that my thoughts and soul can be conveyed without too much physical exertion. I have done something right in this life, but I do not know what it is I have done. I’ll just have to be thankful, be loyal to my morality, be someone I won’t regret becoming.

There are a lot of things I do not know, but those that I do, I try my best never to abuse them.

I think that I think a little too much, read a little too hard into trivial issues. But I’m always the one who looks at the small details, the fine print. I think about times where I have slightly angered people for the smallest reasons, like horning at my friend in front of me playfully while I was driving. He’s probably long gotten over it, but I still find it impossible to fully rid myself of this bad feeling, and I suppose telling myself that “everyone has their flaws” is not a very responsible way of evading my consequences.

I’ve never been good at handling guilt. Can anyone ever be ethically skilled at facing their own guilt?

This post is becoming too lengthy, too verbose. I know I am fully capable of being verbose, sadly, but I haven’t yet found a reason good enough to change that aspect of me.

Oh, the tyranny of being trapped in my own thoughts.

Lately, I’ve been doing plenty of waiting.

Waiting to board my flight, waiting to land, waiting to clear immigration. Waiting to come home, waiting to return to you, but first—waiting for you to come back to me, too. Waiting for my international parcel to arrive, though I am to blame for doing online shopping at this period of time, waiting for your text messages while you have terrible Wi-Fi. Waiting.

We are more than two-thirds done with this long distance. Fate has pulled a cruel trick on us, that when I am overseas you are home, and immediately when I return, off you go. No overlapping. Just pure waiting. And my heart is anxious, but there’s only so much I can do; I can’t wait to see you, but these days will crawl away just as slowly, ignorant of my burning desires, ignorant of how much intensely I miss you.

I love you like how a child loves candy, like how a child loves the warmth of a fireplace in the winter cold. I want you with the enthusiasm a child has, ripping open his present on the morning of white Christmas to receive his favourite thing ever.

My parcel is reaching me at a snail’s speed. DHL isn’t supposed to be so slow. I twiddle my thumbs and refresh the tracking page over and over again, then I realise that I’m the one who is expecting too much. Your Christmas present is very likely going to be delayed, because I’m the one who foolishly placed the order a little too late. Everything is a little twisted in time. I take too long to come to a decision, and suddenly this decision is too rash. And then, I have to wait.

I strike off days on my calendar, and every night when I go to sleep I imagine telling myself that when I wake up again, I’ll be one more day closer to seeing you. I look forward to night time, to the moment my head touches the pillow and my mind goes to rest, knowing that sleep is the fastest way of painless time travel, the easiest way to take me back to you. In the morning, I sleep in until I can’t stand my own laziness anymore. I get up and go about my day, but my day is so, so, empty without you.

The seconds are always ticking. Scientifically, they’re always ticking at the same rate. But this wait is so long, so arduous, so gloomily cold.

I can only hope for tonight to come, then tomorrow, then the day after that; until finally, you are here with me.

I love your accent. I love how you speak a little differently from the rest, how your cultural background is one of a kind to my very limited exposure from the past 19 years of interacting with almost exclusively people of my own race.

I love the way you say my name; tender, gentle, like the delicate sound of rain, like the warmth of the sun. I’m usually tired of hearing my name; like it’s routine, over and over again, but you make even the most common of things sound like magic.

I replay your voice message over and over again, and for the entire 1.5 minutes I am ecstatic, swept away by a wild gust of euphoria. Your intonation goes up and down, like a rollercoaster, sometimes you are louder and sometimes you are soft, and sometimes you are bold and sometimes you are shy. I love that.

You’re not one to typically enjoy phone calls, much less sending voice messages. You say that it’s weird because it feels like you’re talking to a wall, but I feel you—every inch of you, every nook and cranny of your soul, right by my side. You’re warm, even when it’s cold outside.

My countdown timer reads 10 days to seeing you. I can’t believe we are already more than halfway there, nearly a month without seeing you, it’s not exactly long distance, but neither is it short. I don’t want to imagine when we both have to go for a semester long exchange.

Your limited internet is a painful ordeal to survive.

D-10, come back soon.

For the first time, I am excited about Christmas.

I don’t ever celebrate Christmas, such a tradition does not run in my family. But it runs in yours; that’s all that matters to me. Christmas is a day for gifting, for warmth, for love—for you.

I don’t consider myself a person of gifting. My love language for gifting is the lowest out of the 5. I think there are more gifts gone to waste than those which are actually appreciated and used. I don’t want to waste my time and money on gifts that will go to waste.

But for you, I’ll do everything to get you something perfect, despite you telling me that you don’t need anything for Christmas.

Your name is a partial homophone with Christmas. You are everything my friends told me that I deserved, everything that I never dared to dream of. You are everything I never believed existed until you are right here in front of me, right here with me. You are everything that healed my wounds, everything that silenced my fears and self-doubts. You are everything deserving, an oasis of comfort and warmth, my shining star. You are every love song I listen to, every romantic quote I read; you are every poem I resonate with, every emotion I bleed.

For you, I don’t think I’ll ever run out of words to say. Yet, nothing I say will ever be enough for how implausibly perfect you are to me.

This is where I know that for once, I can’t sleep because reality is finally better than my dreams (Dr Seuss). This is where I know that for once, the essence of everything is encapsulated in one person, one heart, one soul.

I’d like to keep that. I’d like to keep you forever. You are my greatest gift.

 

it’s the little things that matter the most to me. it’s the little things that i can trust. it’s the little things that you confide in me, embarrassing conversations and wild ideas, 1am insomniac thoughts that make everything so wholesome, so meaningful, so complete.

it’s the “how are you?” message i receive at 1.02am, from someone i haven’t seen for very long, that reminds me that hearts do connect even with the barrier of distance. that i can feel something solid, something physical, something genuinely sincere even over a telegram conversation. from someone whom i haven’t seen in nearly a year telling me the secrets that bother her at night, that i know that distance is nothing when two hearts connect.

i’ve never felt that i’m the right person to consult when it comes to relationships. i’m not good with my own emotions; i feel too much, or too little, finding the optimum point of balance is something i have always struggled with even up to now. i’m no good at telling my heart what it should feel. when reason clashes with sentiment, i’m almost always at a complete loss for what to do. i feel bizarre and erratic. i feel everything or nothing at all.

but i am lucky. i am beyond lucky, sensationally blessed with friends nothing less than magical. their words of affirmation, random text messages to update on the little and bigger things, sharing things they enjoy, asking if i’m okay, affectionate diction. the little things. it’s always the little things that are the worthiest of attention.

and you convince me that i am worthy of being loved. your love is so gentle, so meticulous and delicate. your words like a sacred sanctuary of calmness and peace, and i am eloquent because of you. yet, you are the masterpiece i can never write. writing about you has involved thousands of backspacing, hundreds of deleted drafts. and so, i’m convinced that i can never encapsulate your essence in any form of literature that i may write. but i write, because you feed me love so powerful, because you exist.

you are fire;
powerful enough to burn me
gentle enough to warm me
deep enough to save me.