EW11

Disclaimer: please read this series of posts starting from EW29, then backwards.

We all came from different walks of life; secondary schools on opposite ends of the island, perfect and broken families and hearts. We speak different languages first, some with a try-hard accent and others punctuating their sentences with lahs and sias.

But if there's one thing we have in common, it's our passports. The second greatest in the world, or so they say. With a Singaporean passport bearing our photograph and name, the world is supposedly ours to conquer.

For now, stay zoomed in on me, the insignificant girl from the extreme east of Singapore, who fell in love with a boy across the border.

When we first started dating our differences were already clear: he was a kampung boy whose mother still bought clothes for, while I was just some spoiled girl who couldn't do her own laundry.

The minute your mother knew I was from Singapore she secretly judged me, putting me into the same bag as all these shallow city girls. Despite wearing long sleeves and jeans every single day, she took a dislike to me, rendering me useless and incapable because I am missing one piece of cloth.

Fetching and sending you to Woodlands was probably the best thing that came from you living in Johor. One of our last arguments may have revolved around you being late for five minutes, but waiting hours for you in the day wasn't always trouble. It made me feel like home, from the library to that gap between the tracks.

In five years, I've followed you to the ICA a couple of times already. Also, collecting your ITE uniform in a building by the more secluded route, just to prove that no memory escapes me. We sat on the stairs while you made some calls, and you leaned in to kiss me. Remember? No, of course not.

Back to ICA, where we ate cheap sandwiches on the floor. Months later when you lost your wallet again, and we ate supermarket croissants because I was so broke. 2016, when your passport expired and I spent the morning with you waiting for your number to be called, only to send you back to Outram Park at 2. That was when I first discovered my favourite band, and made you listen to their newest album.

Hari Raya Haji, 2017; you almost forgot when I sent you to Golden Mile Complex with Burger King in our backpacks. We waited an hour for the bus, sitting on ledges where we could swing our legs and stare at everyone rushing about while we ate our burgers.

You nearly missed your bus actually, and we ran to the other side where it was parked and nearly full of other passengers. You boarded, Malacca-bound, and I waved at you sadly from the window, the bridge, the food market where you took a picture of me from the bus and I was just a black figure.

Between a girl who hated travelling and a boy whose passport very quickly ran out of pages, the border became more than a line that divided us. I wish your mother was less judgemental, or you never lived outside Singapore, or I never grew up sheltered. I wished we never had to separate at bus terminals anymore; I got my wish a few months later, but even that turned against us.

Either way, Lavender was just another division, with its ICA building that you had to frequent. We both had our own bubbles, you being your home in Malaysia, and mine being the entire country. Just the simple fact of where we grew up and the spots where  we always said goodbye could so easily tear us down.