Can we still gaze at the same moon when we’re so far apart?

I’d tell you I’d paint whole constellations for you, with shades of purple and blue and dot all the thousands of stars in them and paint galaxies too, with even smaller dots for the planets somewhere millions of miles away from the stars.

Maybe I wouldn’t feel so lonely anymore. I’d realize that we’re still in the same one tiny dot, floating in a place too massive for us to comprehend.

At the very least, even though we cannot gaze at the moon at the same time anymore, we’d still be looking up at the same sky.

But any distance far enough to keep our hands from reaching for one another is still too far for me.

Advertisements

A Girl Who Loved The Moon

She once loved the moon.

Every night when all the candles have been blown out and everyone has fallen asleep, she would sneak outside to the small balcony and watch the sky, counting the stars with all of her fingers until her eyes grow tired.

But what she loved the most is the crescent moon. No matter how terrible her day had gone, she’d wipe away no matter how many tears she had shed, and smile. And she would sit there, with the gentle night breeze on her skin and her feet dangling over the edge of the balcony, soaring miles and miles above the ground, between the clouds.

Her father found her lying on the exact same spot she has been the whole night, eyes closed.

She would still love the moon, if she could still see it.

 

Painting

Today on my way home, I saw the evening sky turning into an indigo hue, with shades of purple and yellow.

It reminded me of a halfway done watercolor painting spread across a canvas, and droplets of multicolored ink diffusing in water,

but most importantly,

it reminded me of you.

Runaway

She doesn’t know how to stop running.

“Listen to me, one more time you do this and—”

“Try and stop me.”

The girl stood still, her gaze defiant with her arms crossed although she was standing in the corner of the room and the woman right in front of her.

“You don’t always have to turn this into a fight.”

“What if I say you’re the one who started it in the first place?”

“Alright,” the woman sighed, “You won. Go wherever you want to.”

Halfway through the road, with her backpack dragging her down and her feet sore, she stared at the headlights of a pick-up truck passing by in front of her; and she realized that she never had a home to begin with.

She bent down and slid the backpack off her back, setting it by her side.

She wished she knew better not to start running, because she doesn’t know how to stop now.

Never Forget Me

(inspired by Himininn er að hrynja, en stjörnurnar fara þér vel, by Ólafur Arnalds)

“Ana, what happens when we die?”

The little girl who was previously toying around with a small flower she had picked up somewhere near the edge of the playground turned her attention to her friend. Her round, blue eyes shifted, her childlike gaze turned somewhat more mature. Something changed in her after she lost her mother months ago.

“You’ll forget everything, everything.”

“Even you?”

She was silent, her gaze shifted back to the flower between her fingers.

“Yes, even me.”

“But how did you know that, Ana?”

“Mama didn’t recognize me anymore,” she answered, “She didn’t recognize anyone, not even Papa.”

Cassie stopped talking for a while, her feet shifted anxiously on the ground beneath, her expression seemingly in deep thought.

“I wouldn’t want to die.” Cassie spoke after a while, her eyes deeply saddened, “I would never forget you, Ana. Never. I promised you we’d be best friends forever,” she continued, looking up at her friend, “I’d never forget you.”

Ana didn’t know what to reply, so she smiled and held her friend’s hand, her eyes still on the flower in her right hand.


 

“Cassie?”

She lied.

Her breath hitched on her throat, tears were filling up her eyes. She called her friend’s name over and over again, but she wouldn’t reply even though her eyes were wide open; her gaze was empty, and red liquid pooled underneath her head, growing wider and wider and wider…

She lied. She lied. She lied…

Downplay

Downplay (English): To de-emphasize; to present or portray as less important or consequential.

“It’s alright, guys,” she kept telling them with a smile on her face, holding a tissue against her nose, “I think it’s nothing more than just a cold.”

“Vera,” her friend replied, a little carefully, “We saw you coughing in the bathroom earlier this morning.”

“And?”

“There were blood splatters. We’d drive you to the doctor if you want to, it’s a lot more serious than just a cold.”

She stopped talking; her face contorted into a blank slate, devoid of expression.

“Vera?”

How do I tell them I only have 10 more days to live?