He found me first.
In the pictures I was barely twenty-two and somebody else's, but my name and smile were enough. A flick of his finger was the only thing he could do, so he waited, until it was my turn to find him.
There were just two photographs, one barely reaching the top of his chest. It looked like it was taken mindlessly at his desk, somewhere in the dimness of a bedroom. The second wasn't even of him, but a cat lying outside a flat and glaring into the camera.
A hello and a Hey kitty cat became late replies and constant apologies. They became unimportant questions just to keep the ball rolling. Laughs stretched out to fill the emptiness of the text box, and deals made to disguise mindless flirting.
We first met on a Wednesday evening, in the corner of a Starbucks called Rochester. I was an hour early, just fingering the strings on my parka while I waited, careful not to finish my caramel hot chocolate so quickly.
He wasn't what I expected, watching him saunter over to my table and take the seat next to mine. Not when he spoke, with the mild stutter he carried. His shyness was already established on his profile, while my tendency to shoot my mouth off was written on mine.
But I didn't take long to be myself, from laughing with my mouth open to grabbing his arm and running across the road. He even went along with my made-up superstitions; believing in the luck that came with spotting a C151B on the East-West Line and pointing out that we were on the same wavelength when we walked with the same foot first.
It took less than a week for his lines to fade. A text to this girl was his first deed every morning, whether or not she'd replied his messages from the night before. Sometimes it was a picture of the cat outside his flat, sometimes a song.
She told him she was made of fire, so he gave her songs about following your flame.
She told him about her dreams at night, so he got some wire and feathers from his best friend's parrot to make her a dreamcatcher.
She told him the one dessert she could eat everyday for the rest of her life, so he went to town for Hokkaido cheesecake that they would share in plain view of the train tracks.
She said she was fearless, so he laughed when she shrieked at a cockroach scurrying past her feet.
She told him about her cousin bringing her around in her car, so he drove her down the expressways home, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel while she screamed out the songs on his playlist.
She told him about her past, so he stayed up all night with her on the third anniversary of her loss.
It wasn't difficult imagining him sitting at his desk, twining wires into the shape of a dreamcatcher. Imagining him recognising the new train model and believing he would have good luck for the day. Or imagining him sitting in front of the restaurant at level one while I was sneaking out the back door.
He saw a future with me in less than two weeks, but unfortunately for him I didn't share that perspective. Despite being a daydreamer myself, I thought he was delusional. For the first time I knew how to reject someone whom I didn't feel the same way for. For the first time I was the one staying grounded while he was long gone in his own fantasy.
He found me first, but I didn't choose him.
Saturday, September 15, 2018
Sunday, June 10, 2018
5:32
Three years ago at this hour I was screaming for my life. I didn't know what was going to happen, yet I did, yet I didn't. I know it's been forever, so why do I keep bringing this up? To play the victim probably, you're right. It served me right to get myself pregnant in the first place, who asked me to sign all the papers at the hospital, it's been three years just get over it?
But what gets to me the most is his steps away. The pain I went through was nothing compared to watching him move on so easily. All along it was just another problem and not his own flesh and blood. That is still the source of my anger, at how my sacrifice was just a burden he got over. He has already replaced me I'm sure, and probably on the way to replacing you as well. Unless he doesn't want it the way he didn't want you.
I wanted to be the mother whose photo you would always bring around after her death. The one whose world revolved around you, whose every action was controlled by wanting the best for you. I wanted to be a creased photograph in your wallet, pulled out in times of sadness and remembered for all the life lessons I taught you.
But it turned out to be the opposite. I was the one left behind in this world with nothing but a blurry image. The one stumbling around wishing you were alive. I still feel an ache in my chest where my heart is supposed to be, at the mildest thought of you. Only recently I realised you were merely 13 centimetres, written so tiny at the corner.
No man would understand this loss. Women symphatise, but they don't know the regret and amount of love I was ready to give you without saving any for myself. I've been proven now that I don't have the means to love anyone, not a real human being, just trains and insects.
It gets harder as my niece grows older. You would have been just a year younger than her, probably with the same fat cheeks and energy and intelligence. She's starting to be like me, with her stubbornness and pride, refusing to say sorry despite knowing she was wrong. She once exclaimed how she loved trains, would you believe it?
I still get scared hearing her cry, believing it's you, out to get her. I still get nervous when she comes into my room or holds my hand. At any moment now you could take over her out of anger or jealousy. Is it the guilt messing with my imagination, even three years later? I want to say I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, but you'd be too young to even understand the word if you're alive.
I only ever mourn for you on the 10th of June. The date I lost you will always be more familiar than your actual birthday; you would have been a September girl like me, but when exactly? These little things will forever be a mystery, while I continue watching my family sing happy birthday to my niece every November 24th.
If you think this is a letter in letting you go, you're wrong. You were a part of me and always will be, despite the fact that, if the afterlife exists, we will be on opposite ends of the spectrum. You were killed innocent, while I swear I will only let myself die a sinner. I'll continue believing every moth that lands on me is you, somehow, and nothing will stop me from crying whenever I miss you.
-letter to the daughter I never had
Thursday, May 31, 2018
EW29
It's the start of another route: the one closer to my body, yet further from my heart. I don't have any tattoos for this one, but there are green lines all over my hands and arms anyway, as if I can never escape.
Two months after Toa Payoh first opened, this line was too shown to the world. I was born eight years later, given a home on one extreme end, but after I turned seventeen the line became clearer. It wasn't a boundary, made to separate me from my imagination. It was my own veins, threatening to drown and suffocate me.
Just like with the North-South Line, this route begins with the aspiring pilot.
As usual, I remember what we were both wearing. It made him uneasy to have me travel all the way to the other end just for him, but I made it clear that it was no big deal. Maybe it was a lie, because I was still getting over the break-up of that time and memories were still abundant.
But I did just fine. The last stretch towards this station almost made me fall for its entirety. With the flag in the distance and the bend that allowed the two ends of the train to look at each other; if the hurricane's arrival in 2013 made me love the red line, his departure nearly made me love the green.
It was mid-May and I was still the same, spilling everything I had in a torn up notebook. Only this time in an unfamiliar place, a clean slate with neither bitter nor sweet. It was crowded enough to have me anxious, but it didn't deter the pilot from being himself. He was in his turf after all, with his home and second home being so close.
Standing on an overhead bridge almost parallel to the train tracks, he taught me a few things about life and the people in it. But for some reason his presence wasn't enough to pull me through. Like I said at Marina South Pier; he was just a mystery I didn't want to solve.
Now here we are at Joo Koon, where train service ends but this story now starts.
Wednesday, May 30, 2018
EW28
Disclaimer: please read this series of posts starting from EW29, then backwards.
There was a time last year when I avoided the red line like a plague, especially the extreme north. Only Bishan was safe, its ghosts being so much easier to ignore with my layers of solitude.
It took me a while to realise that the green line was dangerous itself, with memories on every other station and their routes. Ghosts were everywhere, especially the man in the button shirt and woman in ripped jeans clinging on to each other.
After a long time, I gathered up my guts to travel from one end to the other, memories or no memories. The person I was meeting here said I didn't have to travel just for him, but I insisted on it. Maybe it was only to prove that I was fearless, but whether or not that was initially the case, the trip made that the truth: that nothing scared me.
My thoughts accumulated with every station that passed, from the moment we departed the first. I had no book to hide in, or song that wouldn't remind me of you. I might as well have been naked, with memories of you poking fun at me.
You and I never visited this station together, and perhaps that was why I exhaled in relief when I left the train. The platform felt so new yet safe. One end was wide enough to see incoming and departing trains, and at the time it was sunset, which awed me all the more.
I walked from one end of the platform to the other while waiting for my companion. We tapped out and he brought me around the neighbourhood, before bringing us back to Joo Koon. It was our first time meeting after three years of unfinished conversations and unfulfilled friendships.
One thing was for sure; hearing the name of this station felt like a new world and a new life. Pioneer, clean enough to dislodge from you, but a step closer to yet another one of our ghosts.
There was a time last year when I avoided the red line like a plague, especially the extreme north. Only Bishan was safe, its ghosts being so much easier to ignore with my layers of solitude.
It took me a while to realise that the green line was dangerous itself, with memories on every other station and their routes. Ghosts were everywhere, especially the man in the button shirt and woman in ripped jeans clinging on to each other.
After a long time, I gathered up my guts to travel from one end to the other, memories or no memories. The person I was meeting here said I didn't have to travel just for him, but I insisted on it. Maybe it was only to prove that I was fearless, but whether or not that was initially the case, the trip made that the truth: that nothing scared me.
My thoughts accumulated with every station that passed, from the moment we departed the first. I had no book to hide in, or song that wouldn't remind me of you. I might as well have been naked, with memories of you poking fun at me.
You and I never visited this station together, and perhaps that was why I exhaled in relief when I left the train. The platform felt so new yet safe. One end was wide enough to see incoming and departing trains, and at the time it was sunset, which awed me all the more.
I walked from one end of the platform to the other while waiting for my companion. We tapped out and he brought me around the neighbourhood, before bringing us back to Joo Koon. It was our first time meeting after three years of unfinished conversations and unfulfilled friendships.
One thing was for sure; hearing the name of this station felt like a new world and a new life. Pioneer, clean enough to dislodge from you, but a step closer to yet another one of our ghosts.
Tuesday, May 29, 2018
EW27
Disclaimer: please read this series of posts starting from EW29, then backwards.
Some people are hard to forget and some are not. This one is the latter, because it didn't take much for me to realise how shitty this person was, how stupid our relationship was. Any sudden thought of either still makes me cringe, and I wish it never happened at all.
He is the one I called Ghost with a capital G, the very definition of 'fuck boy' that everyone was warned about but still fell for anyway. In others he was like you, laughing at my sarcasm and charming me with the little things like kissing the side of my head when we embraced. The only difference was it was just an act on his part. He wasn't loyal like you.
I have to remind you about this relationship from four years ago in order to draw the bigger picture. It took me a while to understand, but it was the harm from this person, and everyone affiliated with him, that made me wish you had stayed. I put all the blame on you, for leaving and making me mix with these people, for eventually coming back but not staying again.
August, I was the one who abandoned him when I chose to go back to you. I remember the show he put up for me here, his face so broken with an underlying anger. I finally walked away and met you on the platform where you were waiting. I had a bad cough and you asked me to drink water but I didn't want to, being in an MRT station. You pointed at my mom's water bottle that I was using and said, Abih angkat air tu buat apa?
But that didn't last, because a week later you decided not to be with me again. And that was when you became a bird that picks a caterpillar up to heights just to drop it, the wind that comes and goes whenever it pleases. That was when you became Hurricane 'Aamir.
I went back to that poser right afterwards, with his band bracelets and piercings and the fringe covering his eyes. For a period of time I, having been blinded, religiously got up early just to travel here where his house is. He skipped school so we could spend time using each other to let go of our own outside parties: you, and his lust.
September came. We've already talked about our crossing paths, again and again. Your best friend called out to me and I didn't see you until later, but even then it was only in the distance. We never made eye contact, I didn't look at you long enough to remember what colour you were even wearing. But you remember, because I was in the striped sweater I wore on our very first date.
What I would do to be back in Boon Lay, holding a pink water bottle in one hand and yours in the other. What I would do to be back walking to his house, only to change my mind and retrace my steps and wait for you instead.
Some people are hard to forget and some are not. This one is the latter, because it didn't take much for me to realise how shitty this person was, how stupid our relationship was. Any sudden thought of either still makes me cringe, and I wish it never happened at all.
He is the one I called Ghost with a capital G, the very definition of 'fuck boy' that everyone was warned about but still fell for anyway. In others he was like you, laughing at my sarcasm and charming me with the little things like kissing the side of my head when we embraced. The only difference was it was just an act on his part. He wasn't loyal like you.
I have to remind you about this relationship from four years ago in order to draw the bigger picture. It took me a while to understand, but it was the harm from this person, and everyone affiliated with him, that made me wish you had stayed. I put all the blame on you, for leaving and making me mix with these people, for eventually coming back but not staying again.
August, I was the one who abandoned him when I chose to go back to you. I remember the show he put up for me here, his face so broken with an underlying anger. I finally walked away and met you on the platform where you were waiting. I had a bad cough and you asked me to drink water but I didn't want to, being in an MRT station. You pointed at my mom's water bottle that I was using and said, Abih angkat air tu buat apa?
But that didn't last, because a week later you decided not to be with me again. And that was when you became a bird that picks a caterpillar up to heights just to drop it, the wind that comes and goes whenever it pleases. That was when you became Hurricane 'Aamir.
I went back to that poser right afterwards, with his band bracelets and piercings and the fringe covering his eyes. For a period of time I, having been blinded, religiously got up early just to travel here where his house is. He skipped school so we could spend time using each other to let go of our own outside parties: you, and his lust.
September came. We've already talked about our crossing paths, again and again. Your best friend called out to me and I didn't see you until later, but even then it was only in the distance. We never made eye contact, I didn't look at you long enough to remember what colour you were even wearing. But you remember, because I was in the striped sweater I wore on our very first date.
What I would do to be back in Boon Lay, holding a pink water bottle in one hand and yours in the other. What I would do to be back walking to his house, only to change my mind and retrace my steps and wait for you instead.
Monday, May 28, 2018
EW26
Disclaimer: please read this series of posts starting from EW29, then backwards.
Nothing new, but I remember the day I went to your school for the first time like it was just yesterday.
It's been five years but I still know what I was wearing, I can easily retrace the steps I took towards the running tracks, I can picture your friend's head poking out of the grandstand and calling out to me. I immediately ran, and her voice still rings clear to me, Eh, eh don't run!
They were your first friends that I met collectively, but somehow they did a good enough job to make me feel welcome. I didn't feel completely out of place, even with my different exterior and cluelessness to the inside jokes.
But that didn't stay long, because you left eight months later, taking them with you. I don't blame them for taking your side, because they were your friends after all. But it didn't stop the insecurity from growing inside me, even when we finally got back together end 2014.
Each time you mentioned one of them I got riled up inside, imagining them saying mean things about me. It was clear your secondary school friends had big mouths, saying you can do better, asking why you'd lick back what you've spat out, whether the child is really yours. I could imagine what your ITE friends would have said as well.
It didn't help that you easily made friends wherever you go, formed bonds so tight that I can't get in and you immediately forget my existence. There will always be an army on your side, prepared to walk against me the moment you declare I am the enemy.
The girl who is a dancer. The friend that keeps pretending he is half British when he is clearly Malay. The only one in the group whose passion is actually hospitality. Any of their names were enough to make me insecure, imagining words they probably never even said, then blaming you and wishing I was the only one in your circle.
Two years ago before my Bali trip, you boarded the train here to two stations prior, where I waited on the stairs. You'd been sweating from your futsal game, and I had been crying because I told you not to go and you did. You enveloped me in hug after hug, but I wouldn't stop.
It's just a fucking game, you snapped eventually.
But it wasn't, and I wish you knew.
My insecurity started with Lakeside, where you fed it with the friendships you had at ITE. It never stopped growing and scattered all over the country, bits in the north and pieces in the stations to come.
Nothing new, but I remember the day I went to your school for the first time like it was just yesterday.
It's been five years but I still know what I was wearing, I can easily retrace the steps I took towards the running tracks, I can picture your friend's head poking out of the grandstand and calling out to me. I immediately ran, and her voice still rings clear to me, Eh, eh don't run!
They were your first friends that I met collectively, but somehow they did a good enough job to make me feel welcome. I didn't feel completely out of place, even with my different exterior and cluelessness to the inside jokes.
But that didn't stay long, because you left eight months later, taking them with you. I don't blame them for taking your side, because they were your friends after all. But it didn't stop the insecurity from growing inside me, even when we finally got back together end 2014.
Each time you mentioned one of them I got riled up inside, imagining them saying mean things about me. It was clear your secondary school friends had big mouths, saying you can do better, asking why you'd lick back what you've spat out, whether the child is really yours. I could imagine what your ITE friends would have said as well.
It didn't help that you easily made friends wherever you go, formed bonds so tight that I can't get in and you immediately forget my existence. There will always be an army on your side, prepared to walk against me the moment you declare I am the enemy.
The girl who is a dancer. The friend that keeps pretending he is half British when he is clearly Malay. The only one in the group whose passion is actually hospitality. Any of their names were enough to make me insecure, imagining words they probably never even said, then blaming you and wishing I was the only one in your circle.
Two years ago before my Bali trip, you boarded the train here to two stations prior, where I waited on the stairs. You'd been sweating from your futsal game, and I had been crying because I told you not to go and you did. You enveloped me in hug after hug, but I wouldn't stop.
It's just a fucking game, you snapped eventually.
But it wasn't, and I wish you knew.
My insecurity started with Lakeside, where you fed it with the friendships you had at ITE. It never stopped growing and scattered all over the country, bits in the north and pieces in the stations to come.
Sunday, May 27, 2018
EW25
Disclaimer: please read this series of posts starting from EW29, then backwards.
It's true that I always end up fine in a few weeks each time you left me. But we all know it wouldn't be possible without the presence of other people, souls that were made to cross my path only in your dust. One of them were there during both break-ups; the aspiring pilot.
Even the only thing we had in common were in constant collision. He never read my blog posts, while I hated the long, fake-deep texts he always sent me. I'm not your phone memo, I once snapped.
You know, no matter how good you think you are, there's always someone better than you, he retaliated, as his way of confessing he thought nothing of my writing.
I don't care, I said, as I climbed into the backseat while my ego took the steering wheel. I'm better than everyone else right now.
Why is it you just piss me off? Don't brag. You're not the greatest.
But his every word fed my pride. You already know he was the one who taught me I was made to float. Truth was, he never actually said those words. He just became another person I thought ranked far below me, someone that will never be as great as I. His academic intelligence was nothing to me. The words he poured out on his phone memo could never compare to the words I write.
It's true that I always end up fine in a few weeks each time you left me. But we all know it wouldn't be possible without the presence of other people, souls that were made to cross my path only in your dust. One of them were there during both break-ups; the aspiring pilot.
After three years, we met for the first time. I could tell he was comfortable, with nothing stopping him from talking to his heart's content. I was too anxious to buy my own meal, too shy to speak out my mind that was bursting at the seams. He was talking too much and was almost always interrupting me, but I genuinely liked his smile. That was probably the first reason I liked listening to him.
May 2017: it took many long conversations for him to admit he had a heart for me three years prior. When we met through a mutual and discovered that we both liked writing and had a page close to our hearts. He didn't do anything about those feelings of his because he strongly believed two writers can never click, with the universes in our brains that will constantly clash.
But for some reason, I didn't think so highly of him. There was nothing special about him aside from being a true "Flying-Type" person, with his desire to be a pilot and soar the skies.
I guess it went the other way around too, when he realised I wasn't that great either. He didn't get my jokes or sarcasm, while I thought nothing of his medals and shit. (he was nominated for some Lee Kuan Yew award in his polytechnic days, and was the second best of his cohort)
I guess it went the other way around too, when he realised I wasn't that great either. He didn't get my jokes or sarcasm, while I thought nothing of his medals and shit. (he was nominated for some Lee Kuan Yew award in his polytechnic days, and was the second best of his cohort)
Even the only thing we had in common were in constant collision. He never read my blog posts, while I hated the long, fake-deep texts he always sent me. I'm not your phone memo, I once snapped.
You know, no matter how good you think you are, there's always someone better than you, he retaliated, as his way of confessing he thought nothing of my writing.
I don't care, I said, as I climbed into the backseat while my ego took the steering wheel. I'm better than everyone else right now.
Why is it you just piss me off? Don't brag. You're not the greatest.
But his every word fed my pride. You already know he was the one who taught me I was made to float. Truth was, he never actually said those words. He just became another person I thought ranked far below me, someone that will never be as great as I. His academic intelligence was nothing to me. The words he poured out on his phone memo could never compare to the words I write.
Maybe we had more than one thing in common: we both had pride. But just like where we lived, our humour and intelligence sat on opposing ends. I was stuck in the extreme east while he continued making Chinese Garden home, with the casuarina trees and countless frames displaying all his achievements.
Saturday, May 26, 2018
EW24/NS1
Disclaimer: please read this series of posts starting from EW29, then backwards.
We both know the way things ended and began again here.
We both know the tears staining your uniform and the arm shoving me off and the grudges that came after. We both know the first hug after six months and the shy hands grasping for each other and the hope that broke barely a day later.
But we forgot everything else. Waiting outside the fitting room for you to try on shirts; hurrying me when I took my time looking at books; sitting next to each other on the high stools of McDonald's. You ignored them, which made it easy for you to leave; I ignored them, which made it hard for me to forgive.
I was anxious the day I met you again, to the point of having my stomach churn. I'm not sure if you remember, but I didn't have much appetite and I told you there was something twisting in my tummy. You asked if it was my period, so naturally, as if we were still together. It just made me more nervous.
You bought a box of kuey teow and we sat beneath the tracks, right in the middle of the stairs where everyone else was walking. I wish the restart was that easy, but a flower so tiny managed to come in between, convincing you that you weren't ready to be with me again.
Almost every one of your birthdays was spent here. 2013, when I sneaked up on you walking with your friends and yelled Surprise! even though it was clear you already expected me. 2015, when you comforted me beneath the tracks, held me close while I cried to the point of having to remove my contacts because they got so dirty. 2016, when I finally smiled after sulking for an hour and you said When I get back, we'll kiss okay?
It's another one of those places where ghosts are abundant, both bitter and sweet. They're wretched phantoms when I'm alone, but coming here with you, they're just memories to recall.
Remember when we ate Wendy's here? Their beef chili was so good.
Remember when you sent me off to 160 and waved at me through the window?
Remember when you waited here with your long skirt? You looked so beautiful.
Jurong East, home to memories so easily forgotten when the anger clouds over. It's so easy to travel back to the day we met again, to pretend I am sitting, waiting for you. The fabric of your polo tee beneath my arms and your cologne wafting into my nose. We should have just stayed there. Maybe our life together would have been different.
We both know the way things ended and began again here.
We both know the tears staining your uniform and the arm shoving me off and the grudges that came after. We both know the first hug after six months and the shy hands grasping for each other and the hope that broke barely a day later.
But we forgot everything else. Waiting outside the fitting room for you to try on shirts; hurrying me when I took my time looking at books; sitting next to each other on the high stools of McDonald's. You ignored them, which made it easy for you to leave; I ignored them, which made it hard for me to forgive.
I was anxious the day I met you again, to the point of having my stomach churn. I'm not sure if you remember, but I didn't have much appetite and I told you there was something twisting in my tummy. You asked if it was my period, so naturally, as if we were still together. It just made me more nervous.
You bought a box of kuey teow and we sat beneath the tracks, right in the middle of the stairs where everyone else was walking. I wish the restart was that easy, but a flower so tiny managed to come in between, convincing you that you weren't ready to be with me again.
Almost every one of your birthdays was spent here. 2013, when I sneaked up on you walking with your friends and yelled Surprise! even though it was clear you already expected me. 2015, when you comforted me beneath the tracks, held me close while I cried to the point of having to remove my contacts because they got so dirty. 2016, when I finally smiled after sulking for an hour and you said When I get back, we'll kiss okay?
It's another one of those places where ghosts are abundant, both bitter and sweet. They're wretched phantoms when I'm alone, but coming here with you, they're just memories to recall.
Remember when we ate Wendy's here? Their beef chili was so good.
Remember when you sent me off to 160 and waved at me through the window?
Remember when you waited here with your long skirt? You looked so beautiful.
Jurong East, home to memories so easily forgotten when the anger clouds over. It's so easy to travel back to the day we met again, to pretend I am sitting, waiting for you. The fabric of your polo tee beneath my arms and your cologne wafting into my nose. We should have just stayed there. Maybe our life together would have been different.
Friday, May 25, 2018
EW23
Disclaimer: please read this series of posts starting from EW29, then backwards.
I know you got sick of me mentioning your nine times leaving, again and again. "You've left me nine times you can do it again" sounds so distant now, truth finally attaching itself to a little dare.
But I also know for a fact that you've lost these 'nine times' somewhere along the way, not remembering where some of them even are. The one where you left me crying at Jurong East is familiar, we both know that story. The one where Tinder was your first comfort stands out too, your girls becoming ghosts that haunted me.
This is the story of your first departure, put aside immediately after it happened. So easily forgotten, but now reopened along with its dust and spiders.
You were two months away from 17, in your white ITE shirt with the sleeves rolled up. There was a time when we met as much as we could, your willingness to come to the west just to see me. For the life of me, I don't remember what we were arguing about there and then; it happened so quickly.
I was holding my laptop bag, the one that doubled as a backpack and had flowers all over. Somehow it slipped from my grasp, and it landed on the floor with a very dull thud.
Unsurprisingly I blamed you, raising my voice a little, You see what you made me do! You picked it up for me, but you snapped back How is that my fault?! You already knew me for my anger, having witnessed it firsthand a few times now.
Then came the most ridiculous argument ever, to be topped with a fight about movie tickets three years later. It had to do with you trying to use the machine to top up your Ez-link, and then suddenly stomping away and leaving me clueless. I asked what's wrong, but you didn't answer, I yelled again What's wrong with you?!
And you finally snapped back, The machine can't accept my coins! What a stupid thing to yell, to have people turn and look at you for, but it was enough to rile me up. I walked away and soon disappeared in the crowds; it didn't matter because you didn't chase me.
For the entire weekend I was your stranger, someone on your timeline going off about the guy who broke her. And I know we were officially broken up, not just a fight somehow, with the way you weren't bothered to work things out anymore.
My layers of ego didn't take long to strip away, wishing you were mine once again. Admitting the fault was mine or even apologising was heavy on my tongue, but I made it clear that I wanted to be part of your life again. You accepted a few days later, after a blog post spilling whatever I wanted to.
It wouldn't be the first time you came bouncing back when you left. It wouldn't be the first time I used my magic with words to convince you to return. But our ghosts still ring clear at Clementi, my walking away and your deciding not to stay; the first of our many departures.
I know you got sick of me mentioning your nine times leaving, again and again. "You've left me nine times you can do it again" sounds so distant now, truth finally attaching itself to a little dare.
But I also know for a fact that you've lost these 'nine times' somewhere along the way, not remembering where some of them even are. The one where you left me crying at Jurong East is familiar, we both know that story. The one where Tinder was your first comfort stands out too, your girls becoming ghosts that haunted me.
This is the story of your first departure, put aside immediately after it happened. So easily forgotten, but now reopened along with its dust and spiders.
You were two months away from 17, in your white ITE shirt with the sleeves rolled up. There was a time when we met as much as we could, your willingness to come to the west just to see me. For the life of me, I don't remember what we were arguing about there and then; it happened so quickly.
I was holding my laptop bag, the one that doubled as a backpack and had flowers all over. Somehow it slipped from my grasp, and it landed on the floor with a very dull thud.
Unsurprisingly I blamed you, raising my voice a little, You see what you made me do! You picked it up for me, but you snapped back How is that my fault?! You already knew me for my anger, having witnessed it firsthand a few times now.
Then came the most ridiculous argument ever, to be topped with a fight about movie tickets three years later. It had to do with you trying to use the machine to top up your Ez-link, and then suddenly stomping away and leaving me clueless. I asked what's wrong, but you didn't answer, I yelled again What's wrong with you?!
And you finally snapped back, The machine can't accept my coins! What a stupid thing to yell, to have people turn and look at you for, but it was enough to rile me up. I walked away and soon disappeared in the crowds; it didn't matter because you didn't chase me.
For the entire weekend I was your stranger, someone on your timeline going off about the guy who broke her. And I know we were officially broken up, not just a fight somehow, with the way you weren't bothered to work things out anymore.
My layers of ego didn't take long to strip away, wishing you were mine once again. Admitting the fault was mine or even apologising was heavy on my tongue, but I made it clear that I wanted to be part of your life again. You accepted a few days later, after a blog post spilling whatever I wanted to.
It wouldn't be the first time you came bouncing back when you left. It wouldn't be the first time I used my magic with words to convince you to return. But our ghosts still ring clear at Clementi, my walking away and your deciding not to stay; the first of our many departures.
Thursday, May 24, 2018
EW22
Disclaimer: please read this series of posts starting from EW29, then backwards.
Just like the stained black cardigan I wore for a whole year, your white uniform from School Of Hospitality is symbolic of 2013 and west side stations. There is a memory of you walking towards me on Jurong East platform, the first time personally seeing you in it.
Memories are easy to see and sometimes smell, but I can also still feel the fabric of this shirt in my hands. This ITE shirt would turn into your booking in/out uniform, into a white Uniqlo button-down you wore to your office at Police Cantonment Complex, and eventually into the very light blue shirt you wear beneath your SilkAir vest today.
You were insecure in it back then, but I didn't know how to convince you that I was smitten. The ITE logo was so faint on your pocket, but you couldn't stop wondering what the polytechnic kids were thinking of as they looked at you.
They weren't my own schoolmates, but the station was already swarming with students. They flooded the bus that we took to my new school as well, and we held on to each other for dear life from the judgemental eyes. These people were about to be my comrades in a week's time, walking the same steps and bearing the same Ngee Ann Polytechnic logo on our student cards.
It didn't take long for the both of us to realise I'll never belong. We were never in the same high school, but our split in tertiary was proof that we were always on opposite ends. You with your ability to make and keep friends, me with my natural talent of standing out for the wrong reasons.
I already stood out on the very first day of lessons, when we were asked to announce our academic goals to the rest of class. I said I wanted to prove my parents wrong. The room went dead silent, and the lecturer asked again, Sorry? What do you want to achieve, exactly?
And I wish I'd said I just wanted a diploma, like everyone else did.
Year One went by and I remained the outcast that I was in my last year of high school. I thought a new school would help shed that skin off me, but I either tried too hard or not at all.
In the end, I chose my love for writing over education. I have no regrets, but perhaps it was another division between us; you went on to graduate from ITE with your beloved classmates while I had neither in my name.
Dover was where I got swept with the generic crowd. Funny that you were in a school that still bore uniforms, but you were blessed with classmates so different from one another. I continued taking the bus with the zombies, mindless despite the clothes on them that screamed personalities.
Just like the stained black cardigan I wore for a whole year, your white uniform from School Of Hospitality is symbolic of 2013 and west side stations. There is a memory of you walking towards me on Jurong East platform, the first time personally seeing you in it.
Memories are easy to see and sometimes smell, but I can also still feel the fabric of this shirt in my hands. This ITE shirt would turn into your booking in/out uniform, into a white Uniqlo button-down you wore to your office at Police Cantonment Complex, and eventually into the very light blue shirt you wear beneath your SilkAir vest today.
You were insecure in it back then, but I didn't know how to convince you that I was smitten. The ITE logo was so faint on your pocket, but you couldn't stop wondering what the polytechnic kids were thinking of as they looked at you.
They weren't my own schoolmates, but the station was already swarming with students. They flooded the bus that we took to my new school as well, and we held on to each other for dear life from the judgemental eyes. These people were about to be my comrades in a week's time, walking the same steps and bearing the same Ngee Ann Polytechnic logo on our student cards.
It didn't take long for the both of us to realise I'll never belong. We were never in the same high school, but our split in tertiary was proof that we were always on opposite ends. You with your ability to make and keep friends, me with my natural talent of standing out for the wrong reasons.
I already stood out on the very first day of lessons, when we were asked to announce our academic goals to the rest of class. I said I wanted to prove my parents wrong. The room went dead silent, and the lecturer asked again, Sorry? What do you want to achieve, exactly?
And I wish I'd said I just wanted a diploma, like everyone else did.
Year One went by and I remained the outcast that I was in my last year of high school. I thought a new school would help shed that skin off me, but I either tried too hard or not at all.
In the end, I chose my love for writing over education. I have no regrets, but perhaps it was another division between us; you went on to graduate from ITE with your beloved classmates while I had neither in my name.
Wednesday, May 23, 2018
EW21/CC22
Disclaimer: please read this series of posts starting from EW29, then backwards.
Change at this station for the Circle Line...
I won't be able to complete my sentence because you'd immediately clamp a hand over my mouth. You've heard the announcement so many times on your own, you didn't need me to echo and intensify it.
You got so annoyed by it that you always pretended to slit my throat, my biggest psychological weakness. But it didn't stop me from anticipating that familiar ring, that familiar voice with the pauses and tone that I have memorised.
In anticipation for the Thomson Line, I wondered what the interchange announcements would be like. I repeated Change at this station for the Thomson Line, in many different tones, asking what you thought the finalised one would be. Your response was simple: who cares?
But I did. And deep inside, I didn't care that you didn't. You could clamp a hand over me all you wanted, but nothing would stop my mind from exploding at its seams. I loved to annoy you with my imitations, testing how far I could say it before you reached my mouth. Maybe it truly got on your nerves, but sometimes it just felt like a game to me.
The love for trains was not the only thing that made us different. Majority of our time passing by here, you were technically a white-collared worker. You looked so smart in your ironed shirt and gelled fringe, while I always showed up in my ripped jeans and uncombed hair.
You had nothing interesting to say most of the time, so you resorted to listening to me go on about the books I was reading. Your hands would be on my waist and mine around your neck; a very neat man with this unkempt girl. Sometimes you let me go suddenly, when you realised one of your colleagues was on the same train. Always somehow ashamed of me.
All my love for the things you didn't care about, from the stories I read to the announcements I mimicked. You were love drunk most of the year, fixated on me no matter what I talked about. No matter how little to none interest you had.
Back in 2013, when we walked along the streets by Masjid Sultan, I saw a bus with this station's pixelated name. Buona Vista, I mimicked, and immediately declared that I could be the MRT announcer woman.
You laughed at me, and it contributed to the line being drawn between us. But once upon a time, it was these differences that made you love me more than anything. You thought it was a phase that would disappear, but turned out it was your love that did.
Change at this station for the Circle Line...
I won't be able to complete my sentence because you'd immediately clamp a hand over my mouth. You've heard the announcement so many times on your own, you didn't need me to echo and intensify it.
You got so annoyed by it that you always pretended to slit my throat, my biggest psychological weakness. But it didn't stop me from anticipating that familiar ring, that familiar voice with the pauses and tone that I have memorised.
In anticipation for the Thomson Line, I wondered what the interchange announcements would be like. I repeated Change at this station for the Thomson Line, in many different tones, asking what you thought the finalised one would be. Your response was simple: who cares?
But I did. And deep inside, I didn't care that you didn't. You could clamp a hand over me all you wanted, but nothing would stop my mind from exploding at its seams. I loved to annoy you with my imitations, testing how far I could say it before you reached my mouth. Maybe it truly got on your nerves, but sometimes it just felt like a game to me.
The love for trains was not the only thing that made us different. Majority of our time passing by here, you were technically a white-collared worker. You looked so smart in your ironed shirt and gelled fringe, while I always showed up in my ripped jeans and uncombed hair.
You had nothing interesting to say most of the time, so you resorted to listening to me go on about the books I was reading. Your hands would be on my waist and mine around your neck; a very neat man with this unkempt girl. Sometimes you let me go suddenly, when you realised one of your colleagues was on the same train. Always somehow ashamed of me.
All my love for the things you didn't care about, from the stories I read to the announcements I mimicked. You were love drunk most of the year, fixated on me no matter what I talked about. No matter how little to none interest you had.
Back in 2013, when we walked along the streets by Masjid Sultan, I saw a bus with this station's pixelated name. Buona Vista, I mimicked, and immediately declared that I could be the MRT announcer woman.
You laughed at me, and it contributed to the line being drawn between us. But once upon a time, it was these differences that made you love me more than anything. You thought it was a phase that would disappear, but turned out it was your love that did.
Tuesday, May 22, 2018
EW20
Disclaimer: please read this series of posts starting from EW29, then backwards.
It was never a big deal working at Ben and Jerry's for me, but for some reason whenever I told someone I worked part-time there, they'll go into disbelief. Excitement almost. What's the big deal? It's just ice-cream. You could just as easily get it from supermarkets.
I'd applied with the one I called Ghost, but every time the schedule came out I dreaded to see his name beneath mine. We had to sit through orientation together, when you were almost part of my life again. Fading, giving blue ticks to my slew of messages. Another one of your departures, caused by a blog post I wrote about him.
Truth be told I hated working there. With comrades that knew what they were doing and had little patience for a newbie, to managers that pit blame on me just because the manager's son mentioned not wanting to work with me. I didn't want to stay there much longer, despite all the benefits.
Late December 2014, you followed me down in your checkered shirt, when they made us play Secret Santa and I had to drop off my present. We took the train around, hands no longer shy to hold. I didn't even bother saying hi to anyone, just strolled in, dropped the gift and walked back out. Nobody noticed me, or if they did, I didn't work there long enough for recognition.
I didn't have to say that I wanted to quit. I faded away, and at some point the manager removed me from the Facebook group.
I hated Commonwealth and route 105 because of an ice-cream store, but I managed to escape, the last time visiting here being yet another restart of our relationship. We don't have any memory here at this station, apart from the self-loathe and loneliness that came from wishing you never left.
It was never a big deal working at Ben and Jerry's for me, but for some reason whenever I told someone I worked part-time there, they'll go into disbelief. Excitement almost. What's the big deal? It's just ice-cream. You could just as easily get it from supermarkets.
I'd applied with the one I called Ghost, but every time the schedule came out I dreaded to see his name beneath mine. We had to sit through orientation together, when you were almost part of my life again. Fading, giving blue ticks to my slew of messages. Another one of your departures, caused by a blog post I wrote about him.
Truth be told I hated working there. With comrades that knew what they were doing and had little patience for a newbie, to managers that pit blame on me just because the manager's son mentioned not wanting to work with me. I didn't want to stay there much longer, despite all the benefits.
Late December 2014, you followed me down in your checkered shirt, when they made us play Secret Santa and I had to drop off my present. We took the train around, hands no longer shy to hold. I didn't even bother saying hi to anyone, just strolled in, dropped the gift and walked back out. Nobody noticed me, or if they did, I didn't work there long enough for recognition.
I didn't have to say that I wanted to quit. I faded away, and at some point the manager removed me from the Facebook group.
I hated Commonwealth and route 105 because of an ice-cream store, but I managed to escape, the last time visiting here being yet another restart of our relationship. We don't have any memory here at this station, apart from the self-loathe and loneliness that came from wishing you never left.
Monday, May 21, 2018
EW19
Disclaimer: please read this series of posts starting from EW29, then backwards.
When you left in early 2014, I struggled. I let out my anger, I cried enough, I wrote my mind out. And then the unexpected happened: I actually moved on.
Like I said, it wasn't possible without the presence of others, people who came to be this weird thing called friends. I met so many in your dust, but the most impactful bunch was this group called Heroine.
We all knew a mutual who added our numbers into a random group, and that was the simplest way we befriended each other. It was the early conversations that pulled me through, silly enough to help me forget you, filling enough to make me stay.
But like with my newfound polytechnic friends the year before, I made one mistake. That was getting too close and showing too much of myself to them, hanging on to their existence and the possibility of a forever friendship.
I hate myself to the core when I think about it today, and I wish so badly it never happened. I didn't learn from the mistake in April, actually repeating it with different parties. A different couple. I nearly destroyed a five-year relationship, yet there I was, playing with the fragility of a new one.
It was the girl from the previous couple that finally, as a close friend, pointed out how fucked up the people in this society usually are. She wasn't really a part of it, but she knew better seeing it from the outside.
I wish I'd met her under different circumstances, instead of being the girl that her boyfriend cheated on her with. But the aura exuded from her was still more mature than the two Heroine boys we just split from, and it grew more apparent that I would never belong too, not with them, not with her.
So on the train back to the east, she talked conviction into me, only stopping when she alighted at Queenstown. 2014 was finally coming to an end, along with the high that came from these unusual friendships. I haven't heard from her or any of them in more than three years, and it's just as well.
Like I said, it wasn't possible without the presence of others, people who came to be this weird thing called friends. I met so many in your dust, but the most impactful bunch was this group called Heroine.
We all knew a mutual who added our numbers into a random group, and that was the simplest way we befriended each other. It was the early conversations that pulled me through, silly enough to help me forget you, filling enough to make me stay.
But like with my newfound polytechnic friends the year before, I made one mistake. That was getting too close and showing too much of myself to them, hanging on to their existence and the possibility of a forever friendship.
I hate myself to the core when I think about it today, and I wish so badly it never happened. I didn't learn from the mistake in April, actually repeating it with different parties. A different couple. I nearly destroyed a five-year relationship, yet there I was, playing with the fragility of a new one.
It was the girl from the previous couple that finally, as a close friend, pointed out how fucked up the people in this society usually are. She wasn't really a part of it, but she knew better seeing it from the outside.
I wish I'd met her under different circumstances, instead of being the girl that her boyfriend cheated on her with. But the aura exuded from her was still more mature than the two Heroine boys we just split from, and it grew more apparent that I would never belong too, not with them, not with her.
So on the train back to the east, she talked conviction into me, only stopping when she alighted at Queenstown. 2014 was finally coming to an end, along with the high that came from these unusual friendships. I haven't heard from her or any of them in more than three years, and it's just as well.
Sunday, May 20, 2018
EW18
Disclaimer: please read this series of posts starting from EW29, then backwards.
We never had reason to visit the few stations here, individually or together. Neither of us worked or had school here, there were no buses that would bring you to Johor, no libraries that would shelter me while waiting for you.
But there was one instance: when you had to take your blood test before National Service. Do you remember? Maybe you wouldn't, but I can imagine the frown on your face before you suddenly exclaim Oh! You'll try to deny my memory, saying it happened somewhere else, but we both know I remember better.
It's so insignificant to you, despite your weakness with seeing heavy amounts of blood. I am the one who remembers, from what we were wearing and the buildings I saw while looking for the one you were in. I swear it was only yesterday, even though it's been three and a half years.
I finally found it, but of course I had to wait outside. I watched other guys walk in and out, some of them possibly the same batch as you months later. You soon left, with a plaster on your inner elbow and a face so pale.
The bus stop we sat at while you told me everything still rings clear in my head. If I was an artist I could draw out the scene, complete with me in the pink butterfly tee and you in your navy blue.
For some reason we headed to Ang Mo Kio Hub, where we ate Swensen's. We were so happy, it was another one of our restarts; we took a picture, which you used as your new Twitter icon. Hi because hello, your first tweet that showed our face to the world again.
You were still constantly prodding at me about your loyalty throughout the year, while I had rivers and white roses and ghosts. But while your blood was being collected in a bottle more than three years ago, it was my turn to be faithful. You were going into National Service the following year, where your only competition came to be my depression.
Who knew Redhill would be one of the last bits of innocence we had, when months later it would be my turn to bleed. I wish I was only now alighting at Bukit Merah bus interchange, wondering which way to go. I wish we had stayed at that bus stop, hearing you talk about nearly fainting at the sight of your own blood.
But the train had to leave, and its descent into the tunnel was the only way it could progress.
But there was one instance: when you had to take your blood test before National Service. Do you remember? Maybe you wouldn't, but I can imagine the frown on your face before you suddenly exclaim Oh! You'll try to deny my memory, saying it happened somewhere else, but we both know I remember better.
It's so insignificant to you, despite your weakness with seeing heavy amounts of blood. I am the one who remembers, from what we were wearing and the buildings I saw while looking for the one you were in. I swear it was only yesterday, even though it's been three and a half years.
I finally found it, but of course I had to wait outside. I watched other guys walk in and out, some of them possibly the same batch as you months later. You soon left, with a plaster on your inner elbow and a face so pale.
The bus stop we sat at while you told me everything still rings clear in my head. If I was an artist I could draw out the scene, complete with me in the pink butterfly tee and you in your navy blue.
For some reason we headed to Ang Mo Kio Hub, where we ate Swensen's. We were so happy, it was another one of our restarts; we took a picture, which you used as your new Twitter icon. Hi because hello, your first tweet that showed our face to the world again.
You were still constantly prodding at me about your loyalty throughout the year, while I had rivers and white roses and ghosts. But while your blood was being collected in a bottle more than three years ago, it was my turn to be faithful. You were going into National Service the following year, where your only competition came to be my depression.
Who knew Redhill would be one of the last bits of innocence we had, when months later it would be my turn to bleed. I wish I was only now alighting at Bukit Merah bus interchange, wondering which way to go. I wish we had stayed at that bus stop, hearing you talk about nearly fainting at the sight of your own blood.
But the train had to leave, and its descent into the tunnel was the only way it could progress.
Saturday, May 19, 2018
EW17
Disclaimer: please read this series of posts starting from EW29, then backwards.
You were anxious the whole day, knowing I was with somebody else. You wished it was just some other guy, but it was your own best friend. The one with the 'feelings' and the 'almosts'.
We only met twice again before that, when I finally agreed to see you. You sat on a high stool on another part of the map, waiting for a girl in all black, save for the bright red collar popping out from under her hoodie. But that is a story for stations down the line.
I missed this stop and had to wait six minutes for the next train to take me back. I have no idea why it took forever to come, the lines of office workers and North-East Line passengers already forming.
But you waited, listening to me complain about my shoes that were wet from walking in the rain. I arrived back at this stop and walked out, looking all around for you. When I finally found you at the back of the mall, you surprised me with a Cotton On bag.
Somehow you still remembered my shoe size, and you even got me socks to change to. I was a little shy at having to accept them, but you made me remove the wet ones on the spot. You helped me put them on, a pair of socks with polka dots and navy shoes with white shoelaces.
You were meeting an old friend, asking you for advice and opinions on headphones. I tagged along, still a little shy and skeptical of having you back in my life. But when your friend came, you did something that opened up my heart a little: you introduced me as your girlfriend.
He said we looked like siblings, which was nothing new at that point. You held my hand again, but it gave me a different rush from your best friend's hand just hours before.
When the train doors finally opened at Tiong Bahru that day, somehow, my heart reopened for you too. Everything came spilling out, the hope of a fresh start and desire to have you as mine again. But so did the insecurity of third parties and the grudge against your past departures. Here is where our relationship restarted for the tenth time, along with all the trouble that came with it.
You were anxious the whole day, knowing I was with somebody else. You wished it was just some other guy, but it was your own best friend. The one with the 'feelings' and the 'almosts'.
We only met twice again before that, when I finally agreed to see you. You sat on a high stool on another part of the map, waiting for a girl in all black, save for the bright red collar popping out from under her hoodie. But that is a story for stations down the line.
I missed this stop and had to wait six minutes for the next train to take me back. I have no idea why it took forever to come, the lines of office workers and North-East Line passengers already forming.
But you waited, listening to me complain about my shoes that were wet from walking in the rain. I arrived back at this stop and walked out, looking all around for you. When I finally found you at the back of the mall, you surprised me with a Cotton On bag.
Somehow you still remembered my shoe size, and you even got me socks to change to. I was a little shy at having to accept them, but you made me remove the wet ones on the spot. You helped me put them on, a pair of socks with polka dots and navy shoes with white shoelaces.
You were meeting an old friend, asking you for advice and opinions on headphones. I tagged along, still a little shy and skeptical of having you back in my life. But when your friend came, you did something that opened up my heart a little: you introduced me as your girlfriend.
He said we looked like siblings, which was nothing new at that point. You held my hand again, but it gave me a different rush from your best friend's hand just hours before.
When the train doors finally opened at Tiong Bahru that day, somehow, my heart reopened for you too. Everything came spilling out, the hope of a fresh start and desire to have you as mine again. But so did the insecurity of third parties and the grudge against your past departures. Here is where our relationship restarted for the tenth time, along with all the trouble that came with it.
Friday, May 18, 2018
EW16/NE3
Disclaimer: please read this series of posts starting from EW29, then backwards.
So familiar to me, even though it was your workplace and not mine. You dreaded this station every morning, even though the traffic jams on the causeway always helped you avoid the peak hours.
After your POP, 2016 became the year of still waters, when nobody departed, nobody was left shaken and struggling to heal. I had my books to pull me through, a different one every two days; I read on the train for these fifteen stations, only pausing when I had to walk to Police Cantonment Complex.
I already knew the time you would usually leave, and I even knew that you would take your own sweet time walking down, talking to your colleagues. But I didn't mind. In fact, I deliberately started leaving earlier just so I had more time to read.
Even if we had a fight earlier, or if we hadn't spoken for hours, the moment an off day rolled around, your workplace remained a habit. Maybe it was just another place to run to, resembling my intuition to hop on a bus to Bishan everytime. But I would faithfully wait on those chairs at the lobby, waiting for your familiar figure to sit next to me.
But with this loyalty came our biggest enemy: insecurity. With every day you finally sat beside me after an hour of waiting, you rushed me, so your friends wouldn't catch up. Malu lah, you said, which I was too, of course. At least, it wasn't great enough to take control of me.
Somewhere along the way my shyness turned into a grudge. You left again, taking them with you, the tallest guy and the one who regularly comes to my store and the one who drives you to Johor, and anyone else who had seen me. You talked about me, telling them the monstrous side of me that made you leave.
She has feelings for my best friend, I can imagine you say. Me and my overworking brain, conjuring up words that they never said, just like I imagined with your secondary school and ITE friends.
They were the ones mostly there for you during the whole season, from the relationship to the break-up and from your desperation to get me back to our last attempt at reconciliation. They were the ones who warned you against me, who said you were blind for being with me, who said you were the good-looking one.
Their words, be they the ones they actually spoke or the ones I made up; they contributed to my insecurity, making me believe I wasn't good enough for you. To my grudge, making me wish you wouldn't go out with them where they would huddle around you and shut me out of your circle.
They were just a handful of the people who pulled you away from me.
When you left last year, you blocked me on social media and my number. You escaped seeing the desperate texts I'd sent you, though I thought you were just ignoring them. Three months later in a hotel room, you read them back from my phone, seeing just how pathetic I'd been.
I'll fetch you next week. Please. Don't leave. I'm sorry. I'll die without you.
You were almost in tears, you apologised again, and you said You should have just come. It would have made a difference if I saw your face.
For that one time, I was disloyal to my routine. I instead gallivanted to the west and passed by Outram Park with pride, pretending you had boarded and was looking at me with disdain. I was long gone with my ego while you were long gone with the boys of Cantonment.
So familiar to me, even though it was your workplace and not mine. You dreaded this station every morning, even though the traffic jams on the causeway always helped you avoid the peak hours.
After your POP, 2016 became the year of still waters, when nobody departed, nobody was left shaken and struggling to heal. I had my books to pull me through, a different one every two days; I read on the train for these fifteen stations, only pausing when I had to walk to Police Cantonment Complex.
I already knew the time you would usually leave, and I even knew that you would take your own sweet time walking down, talking to your colleagues. But I didn't mind. In fact, I deliberately started leaving earlier just so I had more time to read.
Even if we had a fight earlier, or if we hadn't spoken for hours, the moment an off day rolled around, your workplace remained a habit. Maybe it was just another place to run to, resembling my intuition to hop on a bus to Bishan everytime. But I would faithfully wait on those chairs at the lobby, waiting for your familiar figure to sit next to me.
But with this loyalty came our biggest enemy: insecurity. With every day you finally sat beside me after an hour of waiting, you rushed me, so your friends wouldn't catch up. Malu lah, you said, which I was too, of course. At least, it wasn't great enough to take control of me.
Somewhere along the way my shyness turned into a grudge. You left again, taking them with you, the tallest guy and the one who regularly comes to my store and the one who drives you to Johor, and anyone else who had seen me. You talked about me, telling them the monstrous side of me that made you leave.
She has feelings for my best friend, I can imagine you say. Me and my overworking brain, conjuring up words that they never said, just like I imagined with your secondary school and ITE friends.
They were the ones mostly there for you during the whole season, from the relationship to the break-up and from your desperation to get me back to our last attempt at reconciliation. They were the ones who warned you against me, who said you were blind for being with me, who said you were the good-looking one.
Their words, be they the ones they actually spoke or the ones I made up; they contributed to my insecurity, making me believe I wasn't good enough for you. To my grudge, making me wish you wouldn't go out with them where they would huddle around you and shut me out of your circle.
They were just a handful of the people who pulled you away from me.
When you left last year, you blocked me on social media and my number. You escaped seeing the desperate texts I'd sent you, though I thought you were just ignoring them. Three months later in a hotel room, you read them back from my phone, seeing just how pathetic I'd been.
I'll fetch you next week. Please. Don't leave. I'm sorry. I'll die without you.
You were almost in tears, you apologised again, and you said You should have just come. It would have made a difference if I saw your face.
For that one time, I was disloyal to my routine. I instead gallivanted to the west and passed by Outram Park with pride, pretending you had boarded and was looking at me with disdain. I was long gone with my ego while you were long gone with the boys of Cantonment.
Thursday, May 17, 2018
EW15
Disclaimer: please read this series of posts starting from EW29, then backwards.
Here we are. The mid-point.
It's hard going back to places we used to frequent every time you left. In 2014, Jurong East was scary, and I avoided it until one of the more 'mature' Heroine guys convinced me it was nothing, just by being a friend.
Even my school wasn't easy to walk around, with the ghosts of you coming to visit. And that was just a year's worth of memories; imagine three years later, when you left again in 2017, how much harder it suddenly got to navigate my own usual places. My own workplace was your usual haunt, the bench you used to sit while waiting for me to end.
Last year, again, I had a friend to meet on the other end, forcing me to overcome this wariness. If you thought it was strange to love an MRT line, imagine having some sort of fear for it.
The first fourteen stations turned out to be nothing, even with the abundance of memories from the previous four years. No tears emerged, and I thought it would be fine. And then this station came, and I realised I was only halfway through and the next station was Outram Park; I spoke too soon.
I wanted so badly to turn back. At the same time I wanted to reach the end more than anything, to quickly meet my friend and forget about you.
That was me being caught between crying and hoping for you to come back, and running into the future where you'll be completely forgotten and gotten over.
But somehow, like the previous stations, I got through Tanjong Pagar just fine, and the next and the next and the next, until I finally woke up to hear this train service ends here. I got to the end, temporarily forgetting that I'll still go back to the beginning anyway.
Here we are. The mid-point.
It's hard going back to places we used to frequent every time you left. In 2014, Jurong East was scary, and I avoided it until one of the more 'mature' Heroine guys convinced me it was nothing, just by being a friend.
Even my school wasn't easy to walk around, with the ghosts of you coming to visit. And that was just a year's worth of memories; imagine three years later, when you left again in 2017, how much harder it suddenly got to navigate my own usual places. My own workplace was your usual haunt, the bench you used to sit while waiting for me to end.
Last year, again, I had a friend to meet on the other end, forcing me to overcome this wariness. If you thought it was strange to love an MRT line, imagine having some sort of fear for it.
The first fourteen stations turned out to be nothing, even with the abundance of memories from the previous four years. No tears emerged, and I thought it would be fine. And then this station came, and I realised I was only halfway through and the next station was Outram Park; I spoke too soon.
I wanted so badly to turn back. At the same time I wanted to reach the end more than anything, to quickly meet my friend and forget about you.
That was me being caught between crying and hoping for you to come back, and running into the future where you'll be completely forgotten and gotten over.
But somehow, like the previous stations, I got through Tanjong Pagar just fine, and the next and the next and the next, until I finally woke up to hear this train service ends here. I got to the end, temporarily forgetting that I'll still go back to the beginning anyway.
Wednesday, May 16, 2018
EW14/NS26
Disclaimer: please read this series of posts starting from EW29, then backwards.
Like I said, for a while I tried to make a change in the relationship I had with the aspiring pilot. Despite both claiming to have a flair for writing, his intelligence was way different from mine. His humour was non-existent, taking things a little too literally sometimes.
It wasn't just the differences that set him apart for all the wrong reasons. It was his achievements that were more academic than philosophical. It was the way he talked as much as I did, never giving me a chance to voice my own words. It was the way he took everything seriously when I wanted things to be light, and vice versa.
The way we meandered through the peak hour crowds was another reason we didn't work out; the nervousness that remained, him walking so quickly that I couldn't keep up. I never lost him, because he stood at 1.8 metres, but he might as well have been another stranger in the sea of zombies. It wasn't like I could hold on to him the way I did with you.
That was us on our way to the pier, where we uncovered our contrasts. We sat amidst the peace, but he had the chance to smother it with his tales. He didn't learn much about me, as much as I wanted to tell; I learned about his rebellion and many academic achievements that came after, but the conversation revolved around just him.
For once, I was on the other end. I wanted to talk, but I couldn't keep up because he kept injecting his own stories. That must be how you felt the entire time with me, listening to my stories that aren't even funny.
Walking through the city in the dark, I struggled again to keep up. His legs went on forever, so effortlessly, while I was struggling to catch my breath.
We separated close to midnight, and the train ride back to the east was when I stalked your Twitter profile for the first time in weeks. It was then that I saw how smitten you were with somebody new, while there I was still comparing strangers to you. I hope to god I don't stoop that low this time, because I know I will regret with all my soul.
Raffles Place, where I skipped steps to keep up with an aspiring pilot; who knew it would be the parallel to months later, when I remained far below. Trying so hard to be on par with you in your SilkAir aeroplane.
Like I said, for a while I tried to make a change in the relationship I had with the aspiring pilot. Despite both claiming to have a flair for writing, his intelligence was way different from mine. His humour was non-existent, taking things a little too literally sometimes.
It wasn't just the differences that set him apart for all the wrong reasons. It was his achievements that were more academic than philosophical. It was the way he talked as much as I did, never giving me a chance to voice my own words. It was the way he took everything seriously when I wanted things to be light, and vice versa.
The way we meandered through the peak hour crowds was another reason we didn't work out; the nervousness that remained, him walking so quickly that I couldn't keep up. I never lost him, because he stood at 1.8 metres, but he might as well have been another stranger in the sea of zombies. It wasn't like I could hold on to him the way I did with you.
That was us on our way to the pier, where we uncovered our contrasts. We sat amidst the peace, but he had the chance to smother it with his tales. He didn't learn much about me, as much as I wanted to tell; I learned about his rebellion and many academic achievements that came after, but the conversation revolved around just him.
For once, I was on the other end. I wanted to talk, but I couldn't keep up because he kept injecting his own stories. That must be how you felt the entire time with me, listening to my stories that aren't even funny.
Walking through the city in the dark, I struggled again to keep up. His legs went on forever, so effortlessly, while I was struggling to catch my breath.
We separated close to midnight, and the train ride back to the east was when I stalked your Twitter profile for the first time in weeks. It was then that I saw how smitten you were with somebody new, while there I was still comparing strangers to you. I hope to god I don't stoop that low this time, because I know I will regret with all my soul.
Raffles Place, where I skipped steps to keep up with an aspiring pilot; who knew it would be the parallel to months later, when I remained far below. Trying so hard to be on par with you in your SilkAir aeroplane.
Tuesday, May 15, 2018
EW13/NS25
Disclaimer: please read this series of posts starting from EW29, then backwards.
My semi-colon tattoo was made of our spontaneous decisions; mine was to walk to the tattoo parlour here, while yours was to spend your free movie tickets on yourself and your best friend. Remember when we yelled at each other back at Clementi? This is the argument that came to top that one, more ridiculous and unnecessary and waste of a life.
Take me back to the time when you told me over the phone, Let's go to the movies soon, I have some free tickets. Any movie. I said yes because movie dates were one of our favourite pastimes.
Take me back to when you texted me that you had used them. On Luqman, for Suicide Squad, a movie that he already watched beforehand and didn't even like. I still remember exactly which aisle at work I was standing in when I read that text.
If you had wanted to use them on your best friend, you shouldn't have offered them to me. I wouldn't have minded if you used them on him, period, if you didn't mention them to me first. You tried to argue, it's just movie tickets, they're just seven dollars. But you know it was never about the price. It was about the words that you gave.
You never understood, and I wish you did. Somehow, you never learn that the smallest things meant so much to me. But I also wish I never allowed my anger to take control. I wish it was me who said It's just movie tickets, instead of you.
You walked out to the lobby at Police Cantonment Complex without me there, when I would always be faithfully waiting. I was three stations away, getting a punctuation mark on the edge of my wrist, out of anger. Anger at you, for not understanding and for having him in your life; anger at myself, for my anger itself.
The view of you holding my wrist and looking at it burns in my mind, as everything else does. The way you flung my hand aside and snapped, Fifty dollars for this? I could have bought for you five movie tickets lah.
From my first tattoo, born out of my emotions, to the drinks you consumed out of trying to fit in with your cabin crew mates. Sometimes we alight here abruptly, when we suddenly decide to go Orchard, or Woodlands, jumping out just as the doors start to close. City Hall, the station of impromptu decisions, from tattoos to sudden outbursts of anger.
My semi-colon tattoo was made of our spontaneous decisions; mine was to walk to the tattoo parlour here, while yours was to spend your free movie tickets on yourself and your best friend. Remember when we yelled at each other back at Clementi? This is the argument that came to top that one, more ridiculous and unnecessary and waste of a life.
Take me back to the time when you told me over the phone, Let's go to the movies soon, I have some free tickets. Any movie. I said yes because movie dates were one of our favourite pastimes.
Take me back to when you texted me that you had used them. On Luqman, for Suicide Squad, a movie that he already watched beforehand and didn't even like. I still remember exactly which aisle at work I was standing in when I read that text.
If you had wanted to use them on your best friend, you shouldn't have offered them to me. I wouldn't have minded if you used them on him, period, if you didn't mention them to me first. You tried to argue, it's just movie tickets, they're just seven dollars. But you know it was never about the price. It was about the words that you gave.
You never understood, and I wish you did. Somehow, you never learn that the smallest things meant so much to me. But I also wish I never allowed my anger to take control. I wish it was me who said It's just movie tickets, instead of you.
You walked out to the lobby at Police Cantonment Complex without me there, when I would always be faithfully waiting. I was three stations away, getting a punctuation mark on the edge of my wrist, out of anger. Anger at you, for not understanding and for having him in your life; anger at myself, for my anger itself.
The view of you holding my wrist and looking at it burns in my mind, as everything else does. The way you flung my hand aside and snapped, Fifty dollars for this? I could have bought for you five movie tickets lah.
From my first tattoo, born out of my emotions, to the drinks you consumed out of trying to fit in with your cabin crew mates. Sometimes we alight here abruptly, when we suddenly decide to go Orchard, or Woodlands, jumping out just as the doors start to close. City Hall, the station of impromptu decisions, from tattoos to sudden outbursts of anger.
Monday, May 14, 2018
EW12/DT14
Disclaimer: please read this series of posts starting from EW29, then backwards.
I can almost sense your dread while you open up this post.
I think it's your first time seeing my new tattoo, she said, somehow highlighting the triangle of feathers, roses and flames just by looking over her shoulder.
It makes you look so much hotter, he answered, mesmerised with her nakedness, her back completely bare the last time he saw it months ago.
You know everything that happened here; it was your second home once, when you had your internship at Ibis. You thought it would be the only way your life revolved around hotels. But it was where everything began, when we both did something stupid in a hotel with a stupid name. Where everything restarted three and a half years later, this time in a posh hotel room after only three days of meeting again.
We all know that I remember the smallest details. The rooms where we stayed in are all in my head, their layouts, the date, what you were wearing. What we did. The positions we fucked in. It's a curse and a gift, same with the way I remember my dreams so clearly.
Mayo Inn, with Cheers sandwiches and the hijabi at the reception that you were so afraid of being judged by. I had a shift at Ben and Jerry's that night, but I bailed on it. You watched streams on your phone while I read a disturbing manga on mine. I woke up to the song that goes So say Geronimo! Say, say Geronimo!, and you looked at me for a moment and said Why do you still look so pretty after just waking up?
Haising, with the big steps and long flight of stairs that blew me out even when our room was on the second storey. I remember the book I was reading, the clothes I was wearing. You watched Until Dawn on your laptop, and I looked away when Matt got hung on a hook. And here was where you suddenly got so strong, being able to go on so much longer than your seventeen-year-old self.
But my favourite was still Boss, with its wide lobby and pool that we didn't even swim in. It was another spontaneity, booked on the second day of our reunion. We wanted to drink and smoke and pretend we were other people.
Or maybe that was just me.
I wanted to be Chloe Price, with her black hoodie and cigarette between her lips. You just wanted to be you, a man that would be loved again by the woman he adored. The woman who was still listening to her playlist called 29/9, the birth date of his own best friend.
We were just going to drink, we swore, but the tequila tasted like shit on its own and we didn't get any coke. We just finished our big bag of Ruffles instead, kissing and making love in between. Don't you miss doing this? , you said, hovering above me and wondering what or who was on my mind.
You've said more than your fair share of things that haunt me. Strings of words that continue to sting me even until today, like I just don't love you anymore.
But that day, it was my tongue that broke you, when it slipped into your mouth, when it slid down and around your manhood, when it said I feel like I'm cheating on him.
You asked what was about to happen afterwards? I took it literally on purpose, trying to avoid answering. I didn't believe you yet, still with the wariness of another departure. Now I wish I didn't have the ego that fed on the tears you cried for me, and the words you said, lying down next to me: I don't want to lose you again.
We wanted to get drunk that day, but what we got was intoxication by your hope, my pride, and the relationship that was long gone in all the hotels of Bugis.
I can almost sense your dread while you open up this post.
I think it's your first time seeing my new tattoo, she said, somehow highlighting the triangle of feathers, roses and flames just by looking over her shoulder.
It makes you look so much hotter, he answered, mesmerised with her nakedness, her back completely bare the last time he saw it months ago.
You know everything that happened here; it was your second home once, when you had your internship at Ibis. You thought it would be the only way your life revolved around hotels. But it was where everything began, when we both did something stupid in a hotel with a stupid name. Where everything restarted three and a half years later, this time in a posh hotel room after only three days of meeting again.
We all know that I remember the smallest details. The rooms where we stayed in are all in my head, their layouts, the date, what you were wearing. What we did. The positions we fucked in. It's a curse and a gift, same with the way I remember my dreams so clearly.
Mayo Inn, with Cheers sandwiches and the hijabi at the reception that you were so afraid of being judged by. I had a shift at Ben and Jerry's that night, but I bailed on it. You watched streams on your phone while I read a disturbing manga on mine. I woke up to the song that goes So say Geronimo! Say, say Geronimo!, and you looked at me for a moment and said Why do you still look so pretty after just waking up?
Haising, with the big steps and long flight of stairs that blew me out even when our room was on the second storey. I remember the book I was reading, the clothes I was wearing. You watched Until Dawn on your laptop, and I looked away when Matt got hung on a hook. And here was where you suddenly got so strong, being able to go on so much longer than your seventeen-year-old self.
But my favourite was still Boss, with its wide lobby and pool that we didn't even swim in. It was another spontaneity, booked on the second day of our reunion. We wanted to drink and smoke and pretend we were other people.
Or maybe that was just me.
I wanted to be Chloe Price, with her black hoodie and cigarette between her lips. You just wanted to be you, a man that would be loved again by the woman he adored. The woman who was still listening to her playlist called 29/9, the birth date of his own best friend.
We were just going to drink, we swore, but the tequila tasted like shit on its own and we didn't get any coke. We just finished our big bag of Ruffles instead, kissing and making love in between. Don't you miss doing this? , you said, hovering above me and wondering what or who was on my mind.
You've said more than your fair share of things that haunt me. Strings of words that continue to sting me even until today, like I just don't love you anymore.
But that day, it was my tongue that broke you, when it slipped into your mouth, when it slid down and around your manhood, when it said I feel like I'm cheating on him.
You asked what was about to happen afterwards? I took it literally on purpose, trying to avoid answering. I didn't believe you yet, still with the wariness of another departure. Now I wish I didn't have the ego that fed on the tears you cried for me, and the words you said, lying down next to me: I don't want to lose you again.
We wanted to get drunk that day, but what we got was intoxication by your hope, my pride, and the relationship that was long gone in all the hotels of Bugis.
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