rosesearle

blossomfully

Nostalgia in four parts

One.

He says, “when I’m gone, will you write about me?”

I say, “maybe. But you’ll never know it’s about you.”

He says, “how’s that?”

I say, “everything you think is about you will be about someone else. Everything you can’t understand will be about you.”

Two.

You are walking along the shore, somewhere along the coast of Portugal. He turns to you. He says, “I can’t believe I met you. I’ve never met anybody like you.”

Your heart swells. Your eyes scan his face. This is love, you think. There has never been a love like this love. Nobody could understand, and, yet, all that you feel has already been recorded in every song and piece of great literature ever produced. It’s a paradox. And its realisation makes you love him all the more.

Three.

He says, “it’s okay, it’s okay.” She is almost inconsolable. The eyeliner transfer from her waterline to his white t-shirt is a terrible cliché.

(You might wonder why she is crying. The truth is it doesn’t matter. What matters is that he is consoling her.)

“I’m sorry for ruining your t-shirt,” she says. He wonders silently if the charcoal lines will wash off. “It doesn’t matter,” he says. He’ll throw it into the wash after she falls asleep and keep his fingers crossed. She knows that, of course, eyeliner comes out of clothing easily. But she apologises anyway.

In this way, they are both somewhat disingenuous - but only because it enables them to be kind.

Four.

She wakes up early to make blueberry pancakes. Before she gets out of bed, she kisses your face softly. You say something indiscernible and open your sleepy eyes. Her silhouette floats across the room, in the morning hue.

It is one of those rare moments, over in less than a minute, that you wish you could make last forever. That you know you won’t ever forget.

“Stay,” you call out. She’s already at the bedroom door.

She looks back at you with a smile.

“I’m making blueberry pancakes,” she says.

“Stay,” you say anyway.

“I’ll be back soon,” she laughs.

Her silhouette floats away, and down the stairs. You can’t help but feel that her fading footsteps mean something. You have an urge to run after her, tell her you can help to mix the pancake batter.

Instead, you drift back to sleep.

Sue Zhao

@blossomfully

rosesearle

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rosesearle

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rosesearle

izzy-isme92

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rosesearle

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jaxblade

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