Red

There's only one artist I'd immediately recall when thinking of the colour red. In fact, that's pretty odd in itself, the act of pondering about a colour. Who does that? Colours have always been there, just the same as the air we breathe and the numbers we count.

But this girl made me associate her with red, especially more than five years after her best-selling album in 2012. She just released her sixth last November, where she constantly used the word 'golden' in her lyrics instead. It's like your body is gold; Deep blue, but you painted me golden; Made your mark on me, a golden tattoo.

Five years back during interviews, she was constantly talking about the relationships she had and the chaos that came with them. She talked about the colour red symbolising not only the roses and passion, but also the anger and bleeding hearts and fire. She said that a love is only right and real when it is not red, but golden.

I don't want to be that girl daydreaming about 'love' anymore, much like how this girl has grown out of her country songs revolving around fairytales. You found me and you're no longer a daydream, no longer the "you'll find someone better" that everyone was telling me about before I met you.

Five years ago today you became mine. You brought me out of my misery, out of my shell but most of all, out of the east. You're right, I will always blame you for everything that happened in 2015. For leaving in 2014. But I will also thank you for showing me the first half of the red line.

With all the passion and anger and betrayal that came with the red, you brought me the North-South Line as well. I grew to love Woodlands especially, even after you first left me. I took 168 for the first time, falling in love with the expressways.

Orchard and Somerset, where we had our first few dates. Your ITE and camp days, when I frequented Choa Chu Kang just to fetch you, then Novena when you worked part-time at Mount Elizabeth. I loved Woodlands the most, where I would send you off to 950, where we would sit beneath the tracks with our drinks and takoyaki and talk about everyone walking against us.

It wasn't all sweet, of course. Jurong East was where you dumped me for the first time, shoving me off your arm and walking away. Bishan, becoming the place I'd go to just to get away from you. Dhoby Ghaut, where I stormed off in anger after yelling Fuck you! in front of everyone. Marsiling, where you stumbled around the blocks, calling me thirteen times with no answer.

Back in 2012, I called the boy who broke my heart Red. I wish I hadn't, because he isn't worthy of it. He is an empty face to me now, a meaningless void that spat me back out when 2013 and you came along. I know it's stupid for me to revolve you and this relationship around an MRT line, but I have both of you to thank for everything.

Without you, there wouldn't be red and without red, there wouldn't be you. I love you, and I love the North-South Line. How I wish the both of you could intertwine forever, but now you're in Pasir Ris with me, caught at the furthest end of the green line instead.