MEMORIES OF MR.G

MONDAY

Most people read a story before going to bed at night. Not Ms. S. At least, not anymore. These days, She didn’t read much before she slept at night. She had gotten used to watching something on her projector screen, while lying in bed. A terrible habit before falling asleep; to be hooked to the screen; but she felt the compromise on using a projector screen as opposed to a ‘computer or tv screen’ made it alright.  It would take her about 10 minutes to fall asleep after she got into bed. Too little a time to read anything. So she let go of her reading habit. 

Some mornings though, she would wake up an hour too early for her comfort. If it’s still dark and cold outside, S saw no point to drawing the curtains, there is no light or warmth to let in. So she would stay under the covers and read. S would not admit it to herself, but secretly, she waited for such days. She would be washed with guilt after when she would realise how much time had passed, but she refused to be hard on herself and deny her this little escape once in a while. 

Today was one such day. As her eyes flickered past the words, everything around her became obsolete. There S was, in her bed one minute, just looking to kill some time before her day was due to start, and the next thing she knew, she’s wrapped in a fantasy- her presence flying off to a far away land where everything is as it seems but nothing is at it seems. The longer S reads, the deeper she goes into this unreal world full of real emotions. An hour passes into two. From the corner of her eye, she can see the glow bursting to enter from behind her curtains. But the room remains dark. For she cannot return. 

‘’Cannot or Will Not?’’ S asks herself. But there is no answer. Not just yet. 

TUESDAY

S remembers the first time she read someone write about themselves in third person. She was 19 or 20 and the internet was her favourite place to hang out. Not that she was anti-social. S enjoyed making friends and going out. She did plenty of those too. But there was something about the Internet that gave her a freedom to express and explore her identity like no other. Over the years there were many theories she analysed to help her understand why but that is not important to speak about today. Today, S remembers one such exploratory day on the wild and uncharted terrain of the World Wide Web, when she came across Mr.G’s blog. That what he called himself. Mr.G. And the blog was essentially a written account of Mr.G’s daily experiences and his thoughts on his inner and outer realities. Written by him. In third person. At first she found it hilarious. It took her a while to figure out and be convinced that Mr. G’s writing is indeed a third person account of himself and not a fictional character that has been created by the writer. Yet at times, S couldn’t be sure. If that alone did not amuse her enough, as S kept reading, and kept getting deeper into Mr.G’s world, she realised the candidly imperfect account of Mr G’s inner world responses to his outer reality seemed to fill a void within her. In his accounts and perspectives, she recognised something that she had tried so hard to hide within her. The stuff that fuels a quiet rebellion, S comforts herself in her mind.

Now she wasn’t naive. S knew, Mr.G, though clearly skilled with words, doesn’t need to be honest through his accounts. Mr.G’s perceptions and thoughts may have been dramatised or tweaked for literary effect. In reality, Mr.G could very well appear to be an alter ego of his digital persona. But S wasn’t concerned about all that. For her, stories of his everyday struggles and wins shared with a side of his cheeky and dark sense of humour became her trusted companion on nights she couldn’t sleep. This was many years ago. 

S hadn’t thought about him in a very very long time. Earlier today, while brewing her morning tea and watching the leaves rise and fall, an activity S took the time to mindfully enjoy, his name had appeared in her memory like a long lost friend who shows up to surprise you unannounced. She hasn’t been able to stop thinking about him since. 

WEDNESDAY

How can she describe Mr.G?, S wonders. Moments earlier, she was telling her friend Ms J about how many years ago, she would get lost reading a ‘Mr.G’s’ blog. When her friend asked her what he wrote about, S didn’t have an clear answer and immediately that confused her. Yes of course, it was a very very long time ago, almost over 15 years now. How is it that an experience from so long ago can be recalled with such strong emotion, yet the details of the same are so elusive to grab on to? ‘’Oh well, this and that. Mostly his philosophies and opinions while talking about general everyday stuff that he goes through, a few movie and book reviews, you know, that sort of a thing. It was a regular blog. It wasn’t anything specific he spoke about that drew me to his writing. It was the way he saw things. ’’ S had said. 

“Hmm…How did he see things?”, J asks S.

S does not respond. J rolls to her side and reaches for her bag. “I can’t take all this light.” J rustles through her bag, lines of strain appearing and disappearing almost immediately on her forehead as she triumphantly pulls out a pair of sunglasses. 

They were at S’s house. It was a hot afternoon and they were sipping ice cold lemonades while lying on their backs, following the circular motion of the fan blades above. There was so much light pouring in to the room that J had complained twice already. 

“I can’t take all this light, S. I don’t know how you do it. At least get heavier curtains. You have them in your bedroom. It’s like you can see every little thing in this room so clearly. No sense of mystery at all.” 

“I don’t know. I suppose I’m no longer in the mood for mystery…except maybe in the bedroom?” S lets out a deep laugh, turns on to her tummy and looks at J. J does not seem to be impressed with the joke. Her face has contoured into a perfect blend of disbelief and annoyance.

S looks down at the little bits of mint leaves, floating in her lemonade. She could never decide if she wanted to filter them out back into the glass while she sipped her lemonade or to let them flow with it. 

“Do you drink the little mint leaves in your lemonade, J?”, S enquires. 

“Sometimes… Stop trying to change the topic. So what got you hooked to this guy’s blog in particular?’’ J asks her.

‘’Oh well, I don’t know. It was just the things he said. His perspective. He was, I don’t know, what could you call it, so mysteriously deep. Like there was this strange hidden restlessness within him that he was aware of…was working with somehow and he wasn’t scared to talk about it. Also seemed super smart and funny.’’

‘’So basically, you had a crush on him?’’

‘’Yes, I guess you could call it that’’, S sheepishly admits. 

‘’Hahaha, S, you are such a nerd sometimes. I never even knew about this. And we hung out so much during that time!’’

‘’Haha what can I say, I am a nerd sometimes. And he just tickled all the right nerdy buttons.’’ She does not mention that she most definitely did speak about Mr.G’s Blog with J. J often has trouble remembering details. Especially those that do not benefit her in some way. 

‘’So, then what happened?’’ , she asks.

‘’What do you mean, what happened?’’

‘’With Mr.G.’’

‘’Nothing happened. I used to read his blog for a long time, and then I don’t know, at some point I didn’t anymore. It was so long ago, I don’t even remember how it started and how it stopped. In fact, I hadn’t even thought about it until a couple of weeks ago. I don’t know, it just randomly popped into my mind.’’

‘’So you never messaged him?’’ J is amused.

‘’I don’t think so. Gosh it’s so vague. It was like… remember the guy on that radio show you used to call in on?’’

As soon as S mentions R, Ms. J’s eyes light up.

“Hahaha Omg! Now that’s something I haven’t thought of in soooo many years! Wow… Ms J seems to drift off into thought. “R. His name. R. I wonder what he’s upto these days. I never really kept in touch after the show went off the air, you know. I think he moved out of the country soon enough. He gave me his new number and we spoke a few times but whatever whatever. He’s on my Facebook though. I should see what he’s upto.” Ms J picks up her phone, only to pause and look up at S. “The sex was amazing, you know.”

S is amused. “You can stalk him later. But listen. What I meant was, it was kind of like that for me. Except Mr.G is a blogger and I never really got to know as much about him or even meet him like you did R.”, she says

“Hmm..but why didn’t you ever message him?” J gulps down the last of her drink and gets up for a refill. S watched as she goes across the room and pulls out a bottle of gin from the cabinet. “It’s never too early to drink, especially when one is in such good company!”, she announces, to no one in particular. 

S numbs her need to respond, but at the same time, makes a note to herself about how these days, she has started doing a lot of that with Ms J. So instead, out tumbles a string of confusing justifications. “It just never seemed important. I don’t know. I may have commented on something, I don’t know. I mean I can totally see myself capable of doing that, but for the life of me, I can’t be sure what happened exactly. I don’t even really remember if we actually communicated with each other at some point. I mean it was so long ago…” 

‘’Well, it’s hilarious. You little secret crush from the Internet. How cute’’ Ms J interrupts. 

‘’Yeah. So funny.’’ S agrees with Ms J and they laugh about it some more before moving on to other things. 

Later that evening, as she sits by her window, sipping her cup of tea, watching the magpie hopping outside around the lily pond, stopping every few seconds, to dip its beak in and take a few sips, S wonders, ‘’Why can’t I remember any more details?’’

THURSDAY

It’s far too early in the morning again and S is up already. As she grumbles in her bed, cursing her damn luck again, S is reminded of Mr. G again. ‘’Oh why won’t you leave me alone!’’, she yells out in her head. Then she laughs. ‘’Oh well, ‘cest la vie.’’, S mumbles under her breath, not entirely grumpy as before, but not ecstatic about being up either. As she turns to her left and turns on her bedside lamp to settle in for some cozy reading, she spots the light on her phone. S can see that it’s a junk message. But her mind is working on something else. S picks up the phone and tells herself sternly, ‘’5 minutes. Just 5 minutes.’’ 

S begins with a simple search : Mr G’s blog. 

FRIDAY

S sits sipping her tea by the window. The rain is falling softly against the glass, the repetitive taps soothing her ears. S has always loved soft continuous beats. There was something ancient and wise that unblocked inside her when she listened to low repeating percussion sounds. It felt even more magical when the source of the sound was something natural… like the rain.

S is waiting for her friend, L. He is late, but it doesn’t bother her. In fact, it helps her relax. S had rushed from a meeting all the way across from town pretty sure he would be a couple of beers down by the time she reached. S was craving a warm cup of tea before they committed to this night of alcohol and blowing off some existential steam. So when she got a text from him ‘Ok, my date wants to get some ice cream after the movie. I’ll be there in 30.’’, S’s frustration levels at the traffic seemed to drop immediately. ‘’If he says 30, he will definitely be at least an extra 15 minutes late. Which means I can have my tea and read a little by the time he gets there.’’ she thought happily. 

S doesn’t remember how much time had passed since she arrived but when she looks up from her book, S sees him walk in through the door. She tries to read him, but he’s got his poker face on. She finds herself silently wishing his date went well. They have always been able to communicate better with each other when one of them was in love with someone else.

SATURDAY

She is dreaming. She is sure of it because when she looks down at her hands, they are holding a big bunch of calla lilies. Cala lilies used to her favourite flowers when she was in her mid twenties. ‘They make my knees go weak’, she used to tell others. It does not grow where she stays now. So it must be a dream. She holds the flowers against her face, gently caressing their soft fuzzy surface against her cheeks. So what if it’s a dream? The flowers feel as good. S looks around, and realises that she is sitting on a large cushion shaped like a shell. She gets up and looks around the room. S can hear someone calling her name out from outside the room. She walks towards the door, but the corridor begins to grow and extend making her walk to the end longer and longer until she begins to fret. ‘Uh-Oh, the beginning of a bad dream’’ she mutters. No sooner that she says it, she finds herself awake. In bed. 

‘’What an anti-climax. My dreams, just like everything in my life, end before they can get anywhere.’’ S says out loud, as she sits up.

‘’What did you say?’’ S hears a voice coming from the kitchen. 

‘’L? Is that you?’’, S calls out, her mind suddenly grappling to clear the fog caused by the dream.  

‘’Yeah dummy. Who else would it be?’’, says L as he walks into the room, with the smile that makes her go weak on her knees. He knows what he is doing. 

‘’Oh shit, did we fuck last night?’’ S blurts out impulsively. 

‘’Naah, we got too drunk by the end of it.” L comes and sits next to her. S can smell cinnamon on him. He has been cooking. Which means he has been up a while.

L is still grinning. “But it got quite hot somewhere around the time I almost convinced you to go dancing. Almost. Next time, we’ll go all the way.”, he adds triumphantly. 

‘’Hahaha…ahhh my head hurts.’’ S pushes L away and sinks back into bed, pulling the covers over her head. 

“Why didn’t you tell me you started writing again? I saw these papers on your table.”L asks. The fog clears all of a sudden. S realises, L has made himself very comfortable this morning - enough to browse through her things.

S can hear L, he is up from the bed and moving around in the room. L has always been too curious for his own good. 

“So, tell me? What’s this you’re writing?’’ L insists.

‘’Go away. Or make me some breakfast.’’ She grumbles from under the sheet. 

‘’Eggs?’’

‘’No. Pancakes.’’

‘’Memories of Mr. G,” L reads out loud. “What’s this about?’’

‘’Pancakesssss’’ S cries out. 

SUNDAY

‘It’s such a small thing. I just remembered it, so I thought I would write about it. I don’t understand why you’re making such a big deal about it and analysing it so much.’ S is frustrated. Her heartbeat has been slightly elevated and her breath quick through the entire duration of this conversation. She doesn’t want to take the layers out and examine them so much. But he just won’t let it go. 

It was Sunday morning, and S had planned to take the day to herself. L had insisted on staying the whole weekend. S didn’t resist, it wasn’t often they meet. S hated parting with L on a sour note and for some reason, her writing had triggered something in him. He wasn’t ready to open up about it yet, though. But neither was he ready to leave and let it be for another time. 

They are in her living room.The darkness of their conversation is balanced by the amount of light that is pouring out through her big windows. Sitting at the table, S looks around at all the food in front of her. L has churned his morning anxiety into her favourite breakfast spread - pancakes, lots of butter, syrup, toasted white bread, a skillet of baked eggs simmered in a rich tomato sauce. Her eyes are fixed on the layer of a burnt pink onion that is popping out from a pool of red blood sauce. 

“I’m just saying. You tend to be drawn to the dark and quietly enraged kinds. Like me. Because you’re like that too. It’s ok you know? Why does it frustrate you to hear that?’’, L starts off, yet again, while he stuffs his mouth with the last bits of fluffy goodness remaining on his plate.  L had spent all of yesterday sulking in her living room. S had let him be while she got on with her weekend chores. Then at night, he began egging her to psychoanalyse her writing with him. S had no intention to do it, but she didn’t want to be indifferent either. S knows that for L, this is more about him than it is about her. But after a whole day of tension, S was beginning to get weary and cranky.

S decides to give it one last go. After this, she was done. She already lost her Saturday. S cannot afford to lose her Sunday too. “It frustrates me because I don’t care if what you say holds any truth or not. That wasn’t my intention with writing this. I just remembered him, and I wanted to write about it in the style he used. I don’t know where it’s going or what it will turn out into and that’s the whole fun of it for me too. That’s it. I don’t enjoy how you have made it into some sort of therapy session”

‘’It’s not a therapy session. I’m just saying. You have a type you’re drawn to. It’s ok if you don’t want to talk about it.’’

“Don’t you get it? I am talking about it. By writing about it. You just don’t understand.’’

‘’But I was looking at what you’ve written. You’re just taking about some superficial stuff. Oh he wrote like this and you found it funny yet deep so you followed his blog and then you stopped. I mean. Really.’’ L’s impatience seems confusing to S, but she is not in the mood to show any kindness at the moment. 

‘’It’s the first fuckin’ draft.’’, S snaps back.

L is quick to respond, “Stop pouncing on me because you haven’t worked this out yet.’’ 

‘’Look L, I have a tonne of shit to do. Why don’t you go find somewhere else to displace your insecurities. If you want to work out what’s making you obsess about a half written piece that at this point sounds more like a journal entry at times, I’m here to be a sounding board. But if you plan to attack me about loopholes in my story and how that reflects my inability to process my unhealthy patterns, keep your damn observations to yourself. Give me some proper advice if you have the balls to look beyond your ego.’’

L sighs as he picks up his plate and gets up from the table. S can hear him in the kitchen, clearing up. S cannot help but hear a tiny hint of frustration from the way he seemed to be moving around. 

"I got to head out anyway. I got a date. Have you tried that Asian place, the new one near Miko’s bistro?”, L calls out to her. 

S closes her eyes and takes a long deep breath. One…Two…Three.. Four…Exhale. One…Two…Three…Four…Five…Six…Seven…Eight. 

She opens her eyes and L is at the table again. He is waiting for a response, his poker face on, but his eyes glazed. ‘’Yeah, I did.”, S responds slowly. “They have a great cream cheese dumpling. Heaven in my mouth. The kinds you can’t eat just one of haha”

‘’Ok, I’ll try them if I end up going there.’’, L acknowledges. 

“Sure. Enjoy your date.”, S responds, her eyes back on her plate, her favourite breakfast. It’s sad she lost her appetite. 

SUNDAY, later that evening

S is in the kitchen. Etta James plays on her speakers, while the smell of freshly roasted spices fill the air. She is only making soup and mashed potatoes. Comfort food. Neither of which require spices to be roasted. But she decided to roast some anyway to grind and flavour her soup. She loves the way the aroma fills up the whole room; she anticipates how it will linger…much after the soup is ready. Perhaps after she’s done having her soup as well?, she ponders. ‘’Naah, impossible.’’, she mumbles under her breath, sullen, but with a hint of hope. 

By the time she is done with dinner, the time shows as 10:00 on her phone. That is                when she sees L’s message. What are you doing? It reads. She gives herself a few minutes before she makes her decision. “In 30 minutes, if I still feel as warm”

10:36: “What’s up?”, S texts L.

10:37: “Just. Can I come over?”

10:38: “Depends”

10:39: “I won’t annoy you. I just want to talk.”

10:40: “Ok. Come."

ALMOST MONDAY: 11:35 PM, Sunday Night

“This mash is very good.” L has finished the casserole of mash. Though S had made it to last her through her comfort and warmth needs for two whole days, watching him gulp it down with so much enthusiasm gave her a sense she was going to be warm either way. 

“The garlic is so soft, it melts in my mouth. What did you do to it?” L licks his spoon, unable to let the mash go just yet. 

“I bake it. But I wrap the whole bulb in foil with a little oil when I put it in.” S replies.

“Foil with oil. Haha” 

S lets out a deep laugh and plays along. “Foil with oil and garlic, straight from the soil.” 

“That’s the dream, yeah” L gives the spoon a final lick. Convinced he has scraped out all the remaining bits from the bowl, he sets it aside and turns to look at S. “That’s the dream.”, he repeats, then pauses, pondering over what he just said. “Well, one of them, at least.”, he adds. 

L & S are sitting in her balcony. The air is a little nippy, but it’s the only time of the year they can enjoy a cold shiver. They sit in silence for a while, engaged in a silent conversation with the dark skies, each trying to bargain for something the other will not know.

L is the first to break the silence. 

He wants to apologise for his behaviour this morning. S lets him speak even though they are both past it already. “Unconditional love is not a substitute for an honest apology. In fact, an honest apology adds towards the courage required to love unconditionally ”, she had told him a long time ago, when they had broken up. He had laughed at her then, but he had understood through experience that it was the only way they could allow themselves to not drift apart after a fight. 

“I have to say it out you know. I’m sorry. When I started reading about him, I guess, it just triggered something. I remember when you used to go on and on about how much you enjoyed his writing. It used to make me a little jealous.”

Completely oblivious to what he just said, S’s eyes lit up and the words come out of her mouth like uncontrolled vomit. “Omg! You remember me talking about Mr.G's blog? Why didn’t you tell me! I was so bummed because I couldn’t recollect a lot. It started to feel almost like I had made it up in my head. What do you remember? I’ve been trying to remember the content of it. But I can just remember vague emotions and a general theme only now.. Did I send it to you?…Wait…

“Where we dating back then?” S suddenly realises that he used the word jealous.

L is looking at S with what seems to her to be a deep resignation she has seen before. It had always irked her. The disappointment in his eyes when he is not at the centre of her attention. He has always been bad at concealing it, and she has always been good at spotting his attempts. “No, not each other at least. Not yet.”. S doesn’t respond. She knows only her pause will make him continue. 

L drifts off into thought for a few seconds, and then continues.  “I remember though, we would spend hours discussing everything that was absolutely nothing. No matter how shitty the day, I would look forward to our conversations at night. Even though we hung out during the day, to be able to talk over text on the computer screen, it gave a sense of…false security…you could call it maybe? A distance that made it easier to communicate more honestly, with a little more vulnerability, if you may…

“Yes, otherwise you’re too busy being vain and oogling openly at every hot girl you see to be able to actually have a real conversation in person with.” S teases him.

“They enjoyed it. Not everyone was like you, judging me for enjoying a little vanity”, L snaps back, his body tightening.

“Hey! I indulge in vanity too sometimes! Just not as desperately and obviously as you do.” S regrets taking the bait as soon as the words come out of her mouth. She curses herself in her head silently. 

Before L gets a chance to respond, she jumps in quickly, and attempts to divert the flow of conversation. “Ok I’m sorry, continue with what you were saying. I will not make light your admissions of envy. I do want to know what you were going to say.” 

L eases his wrinkled eyebrows, and leans back. S has to wait a whole two minutes before L seems to ground himself enough to want to continue. 

He goes on, “I remember reading his blog and thinking damn he’s good. What must it feel like to be able to have the courage to pour it all out this way. The grief, the anger, the sadness. I guess the jealousy was me just scared you’d have no reason to talk to me eventually. It was stupid, now that I look back. But we hadn’t really become good friends back then. I mean, these things, the madness inside our heads, we keep them so neatly tucked in a private place. To be able to talk about it and let it play out without judgement, it’s freeing.”

“No, I get what you mean. It frustrated me too, forced to behave like it’s all good and beautiful inside my head. Because thats how “normal” people feel. But normal people aren’t supposed to have had a life like mine, yeah?… S trails off and lets her vent run a little longer in her head. L does not urge her to continue out loud. 

“Mr. G made me feel like there was room for people like me in the world. Like a permission to continue living. Even room to be loved. Despite how unworthy of love I felt. Even during my darkest hours.” S says, and after a few minutes of thought, adds, “Talking to you made me feel that too.”

“Me too. It’s a shame we got too familiar too soon. I wonder how it would’ve been if we met and dated when we were older. Like at 30 or something.”, L contemplates.

“Please, your need to lie and cheat has nothing to do with age. It’s better this way. In a way, I feel it’s good we dated it out of our system when we were so young. I remember, after we broke up, I was a little worried, would we be able to get back this…ease?” 

L looks S in the eye. “I don’t lie anymore…Not to you, I won’t.”

The silence is electrifying for a while. L doesn’t turn his gaze away. S can feel her breathing get heavier. She wants to lean over and kiss him. Instead, she says, barely audible, “You know how tempted I’ll always be. But I’m too scared. If it goes anything like the last time around, I’m afraid I will break so bad I won’t be able to come back from it…”

S pauses, lets her fears flow through her, surrendering to the memories of the pain, the helplessness, the agony that was their relationship by the end. She can feel her throat choking and her eyes welling up and she bites her lip, a symbol of control. Slowly, but steadily, the emotions settle and the muddy waters begin to clear. S looks over at L and she can feel her heart melt. This time around, her memories take her back to the beginning - They are laughing, discovering, exploring. There is no room for fear or anger or regret. Only Love. 

She smiles at him, a smile he knows too well by now.  But…maybe…someday…for a short while…if the time is right…”

L has heard what he wanted to hear. His voice is now relaxed. “yes…maybe…someday…” 

They sit under the starry sky, together, yet not together. In love, yet not in love. Yearning, yet refraining. Hoping, but carefully, in moderation. 

L is the first to break the silence. “I had the cream cheese dumplings, by the way. You were right. They were absolutely to die for. Made up for my shitty date. I was thinking of getting a portion for take away, you know. For you. Just to piss off Ms. Look at all the damage we are doing to the environment, I’m going to save the world when I grow up.” 

“Hahaha. I’m glad you didn’t. That would have been very rude. Also, she is not wrong, you know. We are fucking up the environment. I won’t comment much on the ‘saving’ concept, most people who start with that seem to be in it for some absurdly weird  reasons” 

“Exactly. I am not interested in wasting my time talking to morons who grew up fantasising being able to wear a ring and say “Go Captain Planet” some day. I mean get with the concept of programming already!”

“Hahaha That is hilarious! I hope you didn’t tell her that.” 

“I should have. Look, I have nothing against the environment. I love the environment.  Frankly, I don’t think the environment gives a shit whether you want to save it or not. You are not saving the environment, you’re trying to save yourself, hoping to be guilt free and survive in case all crap of humankind gets washed away because of rising sea levels. The environment will exist, recuperate and flourish long after we are destroyed.” 

“Looks like you spent a lot of time watching George Carlin growing up. Let it go. You were just having a bad day.” 

“It’s not about that you know. I mean, yeah, I was having a bad day. But that’s not all that there is to it. Its like when I am with some people, I feel like there is no depth to what they take back from their experiences.”

“And you’re mighty deep, yeah? Haha, I’m not trying to annoy you, I’m just playing devil’s advocate.” 

“I know. I hate myself when I say it, but sometimes that is just how I feel. It’s a jungle out there you know, and no one knows what they’re actually doing. Yet they pretend like they got it all worked out. It’s exhausting to pretend like I don’t see that. What is this obsession with being authoritarian in your thoughts? Why can’t it be I am on a journey, walk with me while I figure this out instead of I have arrived, listen to me and change your life. What about the fact that I am on a journey myself. Have you wondered where I have reached on mine?” 

S does not reply; it’s a lot more nuanced than he is able to realise in this moment. We ourselves play both sides to different people at different times. S doesn’t remind him of this again. She knows that he is aware. S lets him vent. 

Though S feels his pain, her mind keeps drifting back to Mr.G. She looks at L, who has decided to get off his chair and is now lying down on his back, on the floor, gazing at the stars. 

Like a slow kiss of a gentle lover from the past, the thoughts slowly fill her head, “Mr.G is just a symbol. Of that unsettling layer of deep loneliness. The kinds that grip you at an early age -  in the form of a deep childhood trauma, in her case, it was the loss of a loved one after years of illness. A loneliness that seeps in when you have been forced to mature beyond your age. When you have had your ‘childhood’ robbed from you. 

She could love, but struggled to believe she was worthy of being loved. “Leave the past behind, be present.”, the seemingly wise and successful ones had told her. S understood what they meant. But the darkness had engulfed her far too early, and S had picked up on the fact that there is nothing you can do to erase it - it had made her as much as it had broken her. The only choice that seemed to make sense to S so far was to embrace it- to live with it, work with it, knowing that some days will be good, some days wont.

It’s not all that bad, S reassures herself by changing the direction of the narrative in her head, detecting she was slipping a little too much. Life is complex, for everyone, S knows that. And she believes that very once in while, if you are lucky enough to meet someone who carries your shade of darkness, you will sense a familiarity, a deep connection, a kinship. In those moments, you feel fully alive; completely accepted - in your light and your dark. She lived hoping she would be blessed with more moments as those. Moments of order; within the chaos.” 

S wonders if she should tell L her realisation. But she knows a thing or two about realisations. They’re fleeting in their truths. She ponders over how it is not about the realisation as much as it is about being able to put it into words and allow it to exist in the moment it wants to. 

S wonders if L thinks the same and feels tempted to share her thoughts. Instead, she lies down next to him and stares into the abyss, littered with stars. A black canvas with tiny white paint splatters. 

They lie there in silence. Each connecting dots the other has no idea about. 

This time, S breaks the silence. 

“Do you want to see this new app that shows you what constellation you’re pointing at?” S asks, with a sudden excitement. 

THE END