Creative non-fiction
By Joshua Lim
When I was twelve, I thought love was butterflies in my stomach when I saw that pretty girl in the class next door walking along the corridors. The one I was too shy to talk to, so stolen glances along the walkways sufficed for me. The one who I made eye contact with as I passed by her class, leaving me distracted for the rest of the day. I thought her being ‘pretty’ and ‘nice’ was enough for me to love.
I never did tell her these things before we graduated, so she would never know.
When I was a sixteen, I thought love was that cute girl with the big eyebags who made talking easy. The one I’ll purposely walk slower with so we could talk alone when the rest of our friends continued walking ahead of us, lost in our own worlds. We never did mention who was the first one who slowed down and who was the one who followed; it just happened every single time. I thought love was the joy I felt with her, the ease of conversation and the common interests we shared. That it was the weakness I felt in my chest when she smiled at me with those tired eyes. I thought being able to tell her everything and anything, and her understanding me, was enough for me to love.
But on a regular Tuesday evening after I sent her home and she no longer spoke or looked at me the same way, I knew love was the tears I hid when I took the last train home and my sorrow-stained pillow the next morning. It was the drops of water on the kitchen counter hastily wiped away because my mother was in the living room, happy that her carefree son just came home. I knew love was the knife that spun in my gut at the thought of losing her, of her no longer wanting to speak to me. And as the days of unenthusiasm collapsed into months of wondering what I did wrong, love descended into an incomprehensibly elusive object, existing only in the fantasies of the naïve. I knew then I was the one who slowed down first; but she stopped following, so I was left behind alone.
I never told her the scars her sudden disappearance left on my heart, that I had difficulties trusting other people whenever they acted as if they could care about me from then on; so she would never know.
When I was twenty, I thought love was the playful girl who made me feel lovable again, the one who patched up the pieces left behind by the previous girl without even trying. The one who will always tease me, yet the one who will fight for me when no one else would. I thought love was the “I love you”s, the cuddles under the night sky, and kisses stolen against Time. I thought love was the nausea she felt in her stomach because we couldn’t be together, the tears she shed when we had to cut contact for the sake of her health. I thought love was the uncontrollable tears that came after, the numbing pain I felt in my chest when I could no longer talk to her about the most trivial of things. I thought love was the months and months of endless waiting to see her again, to tell her what hindered our union has now dissolved, and so can we into each other’s arms, without tears and guilt this time. I thought love was the persistence in my heart, the unfailing promise of “forever” uttered by her delicate lips.
But when I contacted her months later and she told me it would be best if we don’t see each other again, I knew love was a lonely affair shared by the foolish. And when she said plainly of how she no longer had feelings for me, I knew that love was fickle and promises false. I knew love was this light effigy, uttered prettily by empty lips, seemingly rising to a crescendo until it collapses into nothing. I knew love was not anything of what I said.
~
For a long time, I pondered what love was.
I knew it wasn’t a feeling of butterflies, I knew it wasn’t good chemistry, I knew it wasn’t open declarations of affection and physical intimacy. What was it, then? A lie, perhaps? No, it cannot be. I didn’t want to fall into pretentious self-victimization. That was cowardice, nothing else.
Is love what lasts? But if so, does that mean everything that falls short of forever cannot be counted as love? No, that doesn’t seem right as well. I'm sure the love I shared with her was real when it was there. Or maybe I am just fooling myself. Maybe I am fooling myself all the time into thinking I am not fooling myself.
Is love what is easy? People say those meant for you will never run from you, that calmness and peace will come hands intertwined towards you. Perhaps, but are we not meant to fight for our love? How can one expect there to be no tribulations, no challenges in a lasting relationship? No, love isn’t just what is easy, but it should be. How that works I have no idea.
Is love what loves you back? No, it cannot be. I don’t believe we love to be loved back, that is too transactional. Unconditional love is unconditional, right? But then who can ever tell the difference between the noble patience of a lover and the stubborn persistence of a fool?
I never quite got to resolve all these questions, so I left them in the attic of my mind and went on with life, carefully avoiding Love in fear of the scars oozing with blood once again.
~
But when I left home for national service, I realized love was my mother asking me how I was doing on a Wednesday night out of the blue. I realized love was coming home to a table full of my favourite home-cooked dishes and my family listening attentively to everything I said, although they didn’t understand what was so interesting about walking with heavy equipment and singing songs along the way. I realized love was the hug my mother gave when she could tell her son wasn’t happy but forgiving enough to accept the lie he muttered that “everything was fine” because he didn’t want to tell her his troubles. I realized love was the bowl of cut fruits on my desk every night without requesting it and the full water bottle left on the countertop every time before I left to meet my friends.
And when my father left home to work overseas for over a decade, I realized love was shouldering loneliness so we could live comfortably back at home. I realized it was him never complaining about work when we called, even though I see the fatigue carved onto his eyes. I realized it was him asking me to follow him to the temple even though he knew I was a Christian, not to change my beliefs but to spend time with his son. That despite differing religious beliefs he could still teach me life lessons, because that is what fathers do. I realized love was the packet of beehoon on the dining table after he came back from his morning runs. With time, love became his scanting breath as he tried to keep up with his sons when running with them.
And when dementia slowly consumed my grandmother, I realized love was all the eight times she asked whether we have eaten. I realized love was claiming that she was already full and didn’t want any more food, just so we can eat more, only for her to nibble on snacks after dinner. She could no longer give, so she could only sacrifice what she had to provide more. I realized love was the five mangoes on the table at my grandmother’s house because I casually remarked that I liked mangoes last week. And with time, I realized love was the dementia which came hand in hand with the dissolution of her identity as ‘ah ma,’ because her grandchildren were growing up and she was only ah ma every week when they went over for dinner.
And when I knew my brother was going abroad to study, I realized love was him standing behind me every morning as I was studying to annoy me. I realized love was the shove I gave him while telling him to go away, the only way of getting physical intimacy in a household which grew up without it. I realized love was him helping me with a dumb physics question even though he was buried in work, treating me with delicate patience as I waddled in ignorance. I realized love was the feeble attempts at striking useless conversations as what was being said mattered infinitely less than with whom it was spoken to. I realized love was him pretending to not see my tears when asking me what I wanted for dinner, because he knew I wasn’t strong enough to say what it was that anguished me so. I realized love was him being a good role model for his little brother to emulate, bearing the burden of being the light to follow when I was directionless, drifting through the tumultuous winds of youth.
And when I graduated from junior college, I realized love was the dark chocolate given with a little note when my friend knew of my melancholy. I realized love was them passing the ball to the me even though they wanted to shoot; it was the dessert paid by them because I didn’t have enough money; it was the acceptance of silence shared when I no longer had strength to speak; it was the tears shed when I saw them doing great things even though we have not spoken in months. I realized love is cooking dinner in their college kitchen years after we graduated and the meal we share every summer when we reconvene in Singapore. I realized love was the simple “dinner tomorrow?” though history and memories were the only things tying us together.
~
I don’t pretend to know what love is; after all, I'm only 20. But what I do know about love, I love. And I hope I can continue to love others better than I have been loved. For hearts of scars love best, knowing full well what heals wounds caused by love is to love others even harder. How else can the world become a more loving place if not for the idealistic efforts of endless lovers, trudging forward with the weary might in their chest?
Joshua Lim is a 20-year-old Singaporean currently serving National Service. He tries to find time amidst his busy military schedule to pursue his passion for writing. He is looking forward to beginning university next summer in London.