She was an artist, making art on canvases and the foam on coffee cups. Maybe she still is; I haven't heard from her in two years, being one of those girls who left in their train without me. She probably still thinks I was just being disloyal, which is fine with me. It was my fault for never telling her anything.
Just like how a tiny rose watched the hurricane grow, she was there from my immature thirteen-year-old self to the pre-depression in 2015. It was just too bad that she never stayed longer, that I never held her back with me the way I always did.
She got me iced chocolate on my nineteenth birthday, took a picture of me in my tight red dress. We were surrounded by strangers, office workers making their way down the escalators, where they tapped in and continued wasting their life away in the peak hour crowds.
We didn't take a picture together, but I remember what she was wearing. A flannel from Uniqlo; a few days later I got the same shirt, after she picked out the one in red for me. But come to think of it, why didn't I stay longer with her?
She held my arm as we swayed through the crowds, the way she did in secondary school. Her mother always called me her bodyguard because I was one head taller than her. We separated at the platform, as she made her way home while I went to Serangoon to meet my mother.
Raffles Place remained her workplace for the next... I can't even say because I'm not sure. We stopped talking. I guess it just became the last time and place she ever held my hand.
Next station: NS25/EW13
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