If only I could hit the fast forward button and just watch time fly by.

Her Pov:

Saturday 5:22pm

They say that you should always be present, cherish every moment, hour, minute and second of the day, and all that motivational jazz you see on your social media feeds, but how can I when half of the time I don’t have a clue what to do with myself? I just resort to staying indoors, bedrotting? I’m honestly a damn carcass at this point that the many vultures long since picked at, listening to the same playlists — the same songs looping like an elegy, or a particular TV show I’ve seen a thousand times, just for the background noise. I’ve already maxed out scrolling on my phone, responding to the many memes I let pile in my DMs that I’ve already seen with laughing or crying emojis, because confrontation is just so un-me. So here’s the usual schedule, if you’d even call it one.

Anywaysss…

I’d rotate: doom scrolling on my phone, four-hour ‘naps’, checking all kinds of apps for any updates, something to respond to of some sort. I’d even check my emails, but it’s mostly just updates from those mass promo emails, like “here’s a 15 percent discount on us,” or a “hey, where’ve you been? we haven’t seen you in a while,” followed by a deep dive on their new collection I couldn’t care less about. That pretty sums up my weekends — ohhh and unearthing the many memories that lie buried in my camera roll and archived posts. Nostalgia is a cruel thing, especially when there are moments you wish you could’ve lived twice. Occasionally raiding the fridge and trying to cook up all types of culinary concoctions that I don’t even know where I’d get them from, and disclaimer — no, they’re mostly inedible, but feel free to try. Don’t say I didn’t warn you though.

I don’t really have a social club, friend group or third space to pull me out of this. Even someone or people or environment where I won’t feel even more alone in their presence, forcing connections that aren’t there to begin with — trust me, I’ve tried. I’m not saying it’s always a perfect fit when you find your tribe, but you won’t feel so distant in their presence. It’d feel like recognition. Even if we don’t have the same interests, tastes in music, socio-economic backgrounds or upbringings, for a couple moments we’d speak the same language. It’s not the same making friends as an adult — it’s a whole humiliation ritual if there was one. I envy those whose friendships are still alive and not held together by memes and occasional check-ins like sticking together cardboard boxes with glue sticks that long since dried.

Lord knows the amount of conversation starters I’ve rehearsed and topics that lie inside, archived, right next to my replies to questions like, “do you have plans for tonight?” or “what are you doing this weekend?” or “how was your weekend?” because when I say nothing every time, what’d they think of me? “Oh she has no life,” or “she definitely doesn’t have any friends.” But I do — well… I think. I like to believe I do, despite them cancelling meet-ups last minute as something came up, or those “I’m busy” texts when I’d attempt to call. I rarely do anymore.

I thought about deleting all my social media profiles, but that’s modern-day social suicide. It’s the only way we really stay connected, right? Those random chance encounters I have only really happen online. Replying to funny comments, and them responding “right!!!” then continuing on with our days — it’s all more or less the same. The quiet desperation — followed by shame.

Friday was the first day in a long while that I actually saved myself from this. Like genuinely, even if it was for a moment, I was able to rise out of it and finally get some air. Like a brick in the ocean, drowning was an understatement. The ever-growing pressures of it all — of this mind-numbing cyclical monotony suffocating whatever remnants of life in me.

Even if it was for a couple hours, even for a moment, I wasn’t witnessing life from afar, in a quiet corner, headphones on with no music playing, eavesdropping on group discussions, conversations, phone calls and the like, recalling how it’d used to feel. A lonesome observer is how I thought I’d live my life, working away my prime and my memory serving as the scribe. I’m a “cafe wallflower” so he says. I couldn’t even deny it. I just hope it’s tulips or hydrangeas, not the overused red rose kind. Like it’s not just roses — there’s so much more, but let me not bore you with that. But who am I kidding? It’s not like this uneventful journal is worth reading, just filled with boring filler content. I remember someone somewhere said that time isn’t measured by its passage but rather by moments. That’s why some years feel blank or short and others jam-packed full of stories you talk about for hours.

But I don’t know. I guess I gotta be more bold, more fearless and just ‘do it for the plot’.

His Pov:

So over the weekend I tried my best to honestly stay busy. I don’t know about you but it honestly helps take my mind off things, let alone dulls my sense of time. Like — when I go for long runs or work out at the gym, a planned 45-minute session turns into a two-hour one. It’s almost like therapy sessions where I’m venting to the weights, but they don’t look at me different. They don’t change in tone or make a face. They idly sit and listen till I return again.

Then again, I do somewhat imagine a camera crew following me, recording from every angle and the edits that’d shortly follow after, with some music as the underscore, with a blend of grunts and clanking of the metallic plates occasionally breaking through. Is that weird to say? Maybe just a tad bit delulu? I don’t know — that’s just how I find that extra motivation, feeling like those pro athletes making offseason documentaries that I’ve seen a thousand times but still hit the same. To give my life some meaning or purpose of some kind, something worth watching to someone somewhere. But I doubt they’d be entertained by the monotony that quips and jokes can’t hide. Like I’m not even this super funny guy. I can’t entertain a room, let alone garner a ton of views. Like I’m just a regular dude that does regular things and gets regular results. I don’t have those “I met a famous person” experiences or multiple strokes of good fortune or luck.

But — fuck, I can’t get her off my mind. The spell’s worn off. Why the fuck did I play it so safe? I wanted to see her again, right? Pick her mind? Just be in her presence? Take her in my arms? Memorise her scent that I faintly caught in passing throughout the night? Was it on the walk from the cafe? Maybe in the garage or the walk to her place? I want to make her laugh, uncontrollably giggle with tears welling in her eyes and truly smile with her eyes to the point she’d become self-conscious of developing smile lines. But here I am acting busy, avoiding all sights of the time. You know how you become so conscious of it, it actually starts to move slower? There’s gotta be some kind of scientific name or explanation for it, but I honestly wouldn’t know…

I just want to earn her trust, to lower her walls as I lower mine, but all in due time. Show her the wounds that I grew to hide, with witty lines, a fraudulent demeanour, a performative coldness in my eyes. Let her see the roots rather than judge me by my fruits.

All the experiences that warped my point of view, the roll call for my performance and the pudding for my proof…

So eventually, Sunday came.

I didn’t think it would. Well — as I was waiting for it to arrive… I passed out on the sofa, laptop on my side, loose bits of paper, incoherent notes scattered on the panel floor. I was reminded of their existence by the sound of them crumbling under my steps as I’d shift to gather my bearings. Honestly, I don’t have a clue what half of these notes are. Just looks like scribbles we’d do out of boredom in class. For me it was history — no, I think it was religious education. I don’t know. One of the two. God, were those classes long. A double period it was, and Miss Hampton would make it her personal mission to keep us all engaged, memorising every slide or the stuff that’d leave her mouth. I’d only half listen, act engaged but play games on my phone beneath my desk. Phone in my left hand, pen in my right. I had ultimate bragging rights though. I was never caught, but everyone else was. Well… the ones I knew about.

But little did they know, for a couple weeks she had it out for me. So like the strategist I am, two could play that game. So I made it my mission to finish all the worksheets, all the tasks she’d plan for the month or semester in a week, flying through it all with each request for more, with a smug look on my face till she realised this game we’re playing.

It’s my rest day today.

Unlike most people, I dread days like this. I never know what to do with myself when it’d come. I don’t really have a friend group — we’ve long since gone our separate ways. There’s no one to call to fill this empty space. That’s why I relish those interactions with Miss Jenny, my boss Mike and the guy at my favourite food spot that has my order memorised, or the clients in between. It’s almost like I’m in this in-between state socially, where I don’t know where I’d fit or spaces I can truly exist without shrinking myself or censoring my sense of humour for those I’m around. I’ve always played it safe, honestly. School does the heavy lifting, but after you graduate you realise if they were out of convenience — low effort, low risk, low cost — where organising gatherings weren’t dependent on us. Like what happened to the community centres and youth clubs? They were alive growing up.

Air hockey, foosball, table tennis — you name it. If you could think it, they had it. But as grown-ups what do we have? How do I find my play group? My tribe? Where I don’t have to flaunt maturity and let out the big kid inside?

Sorry for my detour. Ramblings. I tend to drift from time to time. Maybe it’s my mind trying to stave off all I’ve been trying to hide, to shield myself from.

You know, it’s been a couple years since my last. We ended on good terms, is what I tell myself, but it was just me realising the fact that we long since drifted apart, coveting a ghost of what was long since her departure… And you know what’s kind of sick? Her absence deepened my love for her. It’s like the transient nature of her presence was like the sun’s rays breaking through grey skies. Each time it brought hope for a spring that was finally mine to truly experience, to reap. Like all my shows of devotion, love and affection were the sown seeds that finally blossomed. Well, that’s what I tell myself. In hindsight it was merely delusion. But still, for a brief moment, it did keep me warm for a little while…

But winter’s long since arrived, and I admit I’ve barely lived at all, practically only survived. I lost the light in my eyes that once held a thirst for life. I could hardly stand the sight of my now beady eyes. Where or when did they leave? Is there even a map to get them back?

You know, when I get up in the morning, before I convince myself to go for a run, I sit on the edge of my unmade bed in the dark, staring off into the distance, questioning — why am I even doing all this? No one would even care if I don’t turn up. Maybe Mike will, but he’d for sure find a replacement after too many absences. But the clients? They’d find another to work on their cars. I’m just a means to an end. I might as well have been a spanner, bolt or wrench. At least then I’d have some staying power, a clear need or purpose.

I’m not saying I’m worthless, but sometimes I feel as such. Right before I leave my apartment to face the day, I hesitate just before I open the door.

Every. Single. Time.

I ask myself if today’s the day I’ll no longer don a mask — these contacts to hide the absence of life in my eyes or any will to live it. The rehearsed smiles. The upbeat tone in my voice. The hesitation in my responses when they ask how I’m doing or how I really am. But I’ve never been that brave. I think we all know it’s out of courtesy, not concern. I doubt they’d even know how to handle the fact I can barely find the will to live half the time. Why I’m never home or sitting still, filling the emptiness of my life with anything I can find. The endless tabs on my laptop or my mind. The dozens of unfinished projects where the purpose or plan I can no longer find.

So would she even see me as someone intriguing or worthwhile? Do I even rile her curiosity? Did I leave a lasting impression on her mind? Will I come across as too eager if I rushed to see her tomorrow when she arrives or at the end of her day? Should I even run the same route tomorrow, or would that give the wrong sign? I don’t know anymore. If only I could read her mind or get some hint or idea on how she sees me through her eyes…

Previous Chapter

Share

Contents Page