Fiction
By Michael Tan
The sky withheld a crimson orange, streaks of blue and white intertwined within, flushed with the perfect extravagance of simplicity, like a faint fire flickering on a desolate winter night. The cellar was opened for the first time in time forgotten, bearing the possibility of a wonderful stupor or the risk of juvenile remembrance. I slowly walked down the old creaking steps, bearing a façade of indifference, masking the unspeakable turmoil of possibly blemished memories.
We haven’t met in years. The vicissitude of life inevitably pulls even the closest childhood friends apart, flinging them into the furthest corners of the world, of their worlds, flooding them with the incessant tides of dreams and personal aspirations that could no longer accommodate the growth of each other. Each of our worlds expanded infinitely, far beyond what a 12-year-old imagined forever to be. We stumble along carelessly, diving headlong into the nebulous clouds of the inscrutable future, barely breathing before one courageous and thoughtful child asks for a coffee together. And the fog will lift as we make our way for coffee down the promenade. An unexpected surprise, something we didn’t know we so sorely wanted, only realizing its value when it is present. Yet after it is gone and the fog covers us once again, the platitudes of ordering a second cup is almost immediately forgotten. For it serves but a temporary respite, a little clearing that is poignant and pleasant, yet it requires one to backtrack a little on the path that we are on to get there. No, it had nothing to do with the lack of significance in each other’s life; instead, it was of infinite significance, of unspoken love carved on our hearts, and perhaps such carvings render time irrelevant and there is little need for frequent meetings. But perhaps such an idea is overly idealistic.
I was the last to reach, as always. Right as I made eye contact with the table, James rushed up from his seat and closed in for an embrace near the entrance. His radiance had not left him, the characteristic exuberance of utmost vitality that captivated so many others; yet the child-like look remained scratched on his rugged face, bright eyes still filled with joyous wonder but at the same time balanced with a stroke of gentle strength.
“Come come come the food’s all here! I hope you are hungry, we ordered quite a fair bit. Man is it good to see you again!” James was quick to speak and spoke fast, a familiar synchronization of his words with his body’s ceaseless moving, exuding youthful energy. His vitality engulfed my initial reservations of change, reminding me resoundingly that he was the same despite time making his mark on him physically.
Ivy stood right in front of the table, dressed in a cream white dress that reached her knees, smiling widely but with reserved enthusiasm. We pulled into a clumsy hug; her lavender perfume was strong but light. Her cheeks were brushed with a faint blush, eyeliners drawn delicately to accentuate her dark brown eyes, eyes bespeaking utmost confidence and the humble knowledge of her own beauty.
“Long time no see,” she said coyly.
Smiling, I replied: “good to see you again”.
It was only after I was at the table that Matthew stood up from his seat, giving his distinctive smirk that spoke so much and nothing at the same time. He staggered me with his height, almost an entire foot taller than me. Maturity had obviously favored him as he bore the look of a brilliant young man aware of his worth, much unlike the anxious little child I had known him to be yet loved him the same. His eyes were alert, face a little drizzled with the tokens of development and a straight mouth that was reserved, but particularly good at comedic one-liners and awkward utterances.
“Hey man,” he said, and we burst out laughing and embracing each other.
We took our seats around the circular table covered with pots and plates of traditional delights. Conversation flushed and flurried down the reminiscent rivulet as we tumbled down like whitewater rafters, bumped occasionally by jagged boulders of heavy silence. The lightness of childhood was no longer present, now replaced by deliberate inquiries concomitant of age. What each of us were doing now with our lives and where we were at were like musical chairs, taking turns to be answered by each of us. To be honest, we knew vaguely how each other were doing through social media, but what really mattered was not conveyed. It had to be deduced from the answers given, guessed at from the length of pauses between seemingly trivial questions like “how are you?” and the customary “good” that followed.
Of course, we were all doing well. Whatever that may mean and however we might define it. But the heavy things we were all unspeakably carrying was left unspoken, untouched, not because the trust was no longer there, but something along the lines of not needing to express it. We knew that heavy things should not be mentioned in light-hearted conversations that was for sure—as it is for ‘proper’ social conventions—but more importantly they were not insurmountable, that we could each push our own boulders, yet in the event that we couldn’t, there was no doubt, none at all, no matter how much time and distance stood between us, that each of us would let our boulders roll down in order to not let the other be crushed by their own. These things need not be mentioned for it was known, deep down within all of us.
“How’s things with Elijah?” James asked.
Ivy smiled hesitantly. “It’s good, it’s good.”
“How long have you two been together?"
“We’re turning 1 next month! He’s bringing me out on a yacht to celebrate.”
“Wow, isn’t that really expensive?”
“His parents are paying for it, but it’s the thought that counts.” Ivy said while fiddling with her hair.
“Why, you jealous? Legacy is hard to beat.” Matthew chipped it.
“Of course not, that was ages ago. I'm just asking!”
“What was ages ago?” Ivy asked innocently.
The table suddenly went quiet. Matthew looked away while James looked down. I was amused. The three boys were silent in mutual understanding, unsure of what this all amounted to, if anything at all. Time had its effect.
“Nah, I just used to have a crush on you, something lame like that.” James laughed.
Ivy’s face turned a slight pink but giggled flamboyantly. “Oh really?”
“Yea, no shit,” Matthew said.
James slapped Matthew’s arm and burst out in a childlike laughter. “Well it’s all really long ago. Don’t worry I'm over it, it’s history.”
“Why didn’t you tell me anything then?”
Unsure of what to say, James gave me a look for help. “Let’s just be glad that he didn’t. If he did, maybe we wouldn’t be here today.” I said.
“Hahaha, maybe, maybe not.” Our eyes met for a second intensely before she turned away with a light flush.
Not knowing what to say, we each picked up our cups of water because thirst decided to visit us all at the same time. The food was almost finished and all of us were full, less James, who continued to probe the remaining survivors and prompt us to be strong and finish the rest of the food.
It is almost a rite of passage for childhood friend groups to have internal romantic inclinations. Thus ensued the petulant practices of asking each other to be the wing-man, if the wing-man himself was fortunate enough to not share a similar passion. Often it was not the lack of courage that resisted the interested from expressing his interest, but because of an abundance of love. There was indeed ‘something so tragic about a friendship tainted in romance,’ brilliantly written by Wilde, as the platonic love could be lost in pursuit of romantic love. But who ever said platonic love was subservient to romantic, that it wasn’t as noble? The possibility of risking the loss of a loved friend, no matter how little, was too great to bear for many kindred spirits. Though something wonderful could be formed if a moment’s vulnerability was embraced, the off chance of something wonderful crumbling in pursuit of something putatively greater would be too much to bear.
Yet friendship is ironically the bedrock of every stable and joyous romantic relationship. Was it worth the risk? Many say no. For it is not the fortune of many to have confessed a different shade of friendship, face rejection, and continue a similarly light-hearted relationship. Even if you are fortunate enough to remain friends, there will always be a heavy coat lingering between you, of nostalgia for the distant past and of the alternate future. No matter how gentle the loved, to love is to lay one’s heart out in an oblivious embrace, with the threat of unrequitedness looming over us like Death—peaceful you may be, violence is violence, and the love suffers the weight commensurate to his own love. We are often crushed most by those we love most. So the leap from friendship to relationship is intractable, irreversible. For everything worthwhile must be attained through sacrifice, or the risk of it. How many are willing to leap, to brace the abyss for the idea of love?
As the sun set, the labor of our bones grew heavy, and the time for the present has come. We packed up our things and headed out in comfortable silence, a rare treasure shared only among the closest of friends, perhaps the truest form of intimacy and love. To share a space of silence was to speak of the most profound truth, to allow the possibility of everything to stand between us and remain unhindered, unbothered, not because of indifference, but because of mutual understanding that no words would be preferable to the unspoken. James placed his hands on our shoulders and pulled us into a group hug while walking, a symbolic gesture of solidarity that transcended time, emblematic of where we were. A pat on the back or a side-hug from a childhood friend meant infinitely more than the grown-up proclivities for heavy touches of meaninglessness, of the empty kisses that come from transitory lovers or the feather-like touches with an intimate stranger met at a party. Perhaps children are the ones who understand the most of life, of the nature of reality. They didn’t try to understand it, but only lived it. And what they acted out was the unspeakable love of eye contact, and infinite vulnerability of a pat of the back, which confessed the eternal promise of solidarity despite unending divergence, and the strength of history that said “Hey, I may not know you very well now, but I did, and I loved you then, so I will love you now, and forever.” What was never spoken was always understood, for how can any form of love remain despite? The unspoken remained unblemished by the world, unable to be caught away in the wind, but remains in each of our wistful hearts, bound together by history and memories. The love of childhood friends bore an uncanny semblance to the divine, that of a child’s unwavering dedication to a teddy bear, or an old, distorted bolster that stood with them against the monsters under their bed. Years later, we found out that the monsters were not under the bed but with us, in us, yet those who stood with us are likewise with us, and they always will.
To the childhood friends that had left the cellar, our love abounds through the ebbs of time, never mentioned, but never forgotten.
Michael Tan is a Singaporean student studying humanities at Anglo-Chinese Junior College. He enjoys playing football and watching old films. He writes whenever he feels compelled to, usually when he is missing something or someone.