Michelle Nhung Le

Posted on: 20/10/2021

She walks into the coffee shop and settles down on a seat next to the floor-length, plate-glass window, the plain black bag dangling from her left shoulder and one side of the headphones falling from her ear. The window is finely decorated, with various adorable drawings delicately painted using correction pens. Most of those sketches are about love, some about friendship and life. Her favorite one is the cartoon of a stick figure whose face looks blue and heart is replaced with an “x”; there is also a talk bubble popping out, saying “Dear heart, why him?” The drawing struck her from the first time she saw it, since she felt it was much relatable, as if she were the girl herself.

She gazes out of the window and feels a rising scent of chilliness and dampness. A bank of rain clouds leisurely looms on the horizon, forking the sky into two big pieces: one colored in bleak blue and the other one in a relatively grey shade. Pale, in general. The pleasurable zephyr is now taken over by a blast of vigorously fierce wind, forcing dead leaves to flutter and rustle all over the place. “It must be raining soon,” she thinks to herself, then takes a little sip of the Cappuccino brought to her by the amiable waitress whom she regards as her friend. It is 5:30pm, rush hour. She can see a plethora of people and vehicles mingling, dashing for home, lest they get stuck on the roads when the rain comes. It looks like a big mess outside.

One last flash of lightning strikes and the rain starts sizzling. She takes a deep breath, taking in the pleasing aroma, more or less petrichor, which is just the smell she loves.

It is her sixteenth birthday today, and she is here, at her favorite coffee shop, alone, without any friends. That is simply who she is. Her best friends threw a small surprise party for her already, and she enjoyed it a lot. She loves and appreciates them for everything they have done for her, and today is one of the best birthdays she has ever had. Yet, after all the fun, the laughter, the wishes and presents, she is now back to her self-imposed isolation, in a place where she is perfectly content, merely so she can be engrossed in her own little world, with frozen time and eternal ephemerality. “Eternal ephemerality”. Her favorite phrase. An oxymoron. She loves oxymorons and paradoxes. “Isn’t life full of those things?” she ponders. Not many things can be both eternal and ephemeral at the same time, but isn’t ephemerality eternal and eternity ephemeral? Most of the things in our lives are brutally and heart-wrenchingly fleeting, she believes. People come and go, but how many would leave a mark in our hearts and our minds evermore? Once things become the past, they can never be as majestic and wonderful, or even devastating, as they used to be. Bygones are bygones, and shouldn’t they be? Once things fade away, they would forever be momentary and short-lived.

Just like him.

She can no longer decide whether he is an “ephemerality” or an “eternity” in her life, for her memories of him and with him are like a cocktail which is sweet and pleasant at the tip of the tongue, yet becomes utterly acerbic as she swallows. Nonetheless, the bitterness is somewhat mesmerizing and alluring. It captures her thoughts for days and nights, and even if it is uncomfortable, she cannot stop wanting more of it. Or the bitterness is like drugs. As soon as she tries it, she has no power to restrain herself and would die to devour it instead. Her story with him can never be precisely categorized anymore, since no word can describe what they have had, or how they have made each other suffer. She doesn’t want to forget all the fond and beautiful memories, but doesn’t want to think about him or their drama either. She tries to stop herself from slipping back into the old habits of missing him and desiring for some cute little conversations with him, since she must never tear off the mask of a girl with strong and independent characteristics she has been trying to create.

Yet, on days like this, her mind would automatically wander off to him, her heart would excruciatingly crave for him, and her inner self would yearn for some peaceful moments with him. She longs for their impromptu walks, during which he often puts his arm firmly around her lest she get cold, and she slightly leans her head on his shoulder, while at the same time discussing excitedly with him some stars or planets high above. She longs for video calls with him late at night, for an hour or more, merely to talk about random things because she wants somebody to talk with. She longs for his eyes on her as she falls asleep, whether she is really sinking into slumber or just pretending to be, so that he can have the opportunity to quietly watch her in her most peaceful moments. That, that and a lot more. It dawns on her she has been too accustomed to all those things, and the fact that she has to leave them behind and bury them somewhere in the chamber of her heart is aching. The pain seems intermittent yet perpetual, as if it was an unidentifiable disease she had been incubating, the one that would gradually corrode her bare and vulnerable soul.

Looking back on everything again, she is astounded at how similar they are to the dolls in a forgotten music box. They are gorgeous and charming creatures with beautiful faces and laudable personalities who stand by each other, looking perfect as a pair, ready to make great moves together when the music plays. Nonetheless, nobody is there to wind up the box, and thus the music will never be played and the dolls will never move. Regardless of how wonderful they are together, they are forever trapped, frozen in their own cage, the one they can never escape, the one keeping them together but in a way, parted. Isn’t it tragically heartbreaking to be immensely close to the one you love, feeling as though you can touch them within an inch, but it is out of the question, because there stands an invisible wall, insanely unbreakable, between you two?

It is her sixteenth birthday today, and yet, she hasn’t received any wish from him, not even a word. It is bitter to think about his birthday, how she planned and prepared everything as carefully and thoroughly as possible. She stayed up for nights to get everything ready and wrecked her brain to come up with interesting and unique ideas, just so he could have an unforgettable special day. And now, all she gets from him is… silence. The significance of this nothingness forces her to spurt out a satirical laugh. For the thousandth times, she asks herself what she is expecting from him, and then shakes her head in dismay. Everything, but nothing. Hope for the best and expect the worst, she always reminds herself. Still, isn’t life full of irony, when the reality is even worse than the “worst” she could ever imagine?

She gently closes her eyes, as she thinks it is time for her to make a wish. What could she wish for? She wants to ask for something purely for herself, a chance to be selfish. Something relating to love, perhaps. Yet, what options does she have? She doesn’t want to wish for the reciprocation of love from him, because that would be too ludicrous. At the same time, she doesn’t desire to be able to let go of him soon, because frankly, she’s not ready. Loving him is actually what feels good, except for the pain. She wants to hold on a little longer, then slowly leave the past behind, at her own pace. She cannot wish for a new boyfriend, her conscience doesn’t allow and her heart doesn’t approve. In the end, she is left with no option. Has she spent too much time thinking and caring about him, devoted too much of her own being to him that she cannot set her mind on anything else? Is it even possible for her to move on, when she is still passionately in love?

Then, all of a sudden, the idea flashes through her mind as she gets hit by the enlightenment. That is indeed what she needs. Something she has been lacking, the ray of light flickering through the leaks and cracks of the firm and cramped ground, the exit for her impasse. A curve forms on her lips, as her eyes gently open, full of wonders. Carefully, she takes out a pen from her bag and writes a neat note to leave at the cafe. Words rush to her mind in the same way hope is flaring up in her spine. Finished, she lets out a sigh of relief, a symbol of a completely new and fresh desire. She stands up and leaves, looking confident and filled with energy, as if everything was just a tiring dream from which she has awoken.

Inside, on the table where she sat, next to her coffee, there lies a note, saying: “I wish for a forever pure heart which knows how to protect itself, yet willing to get scarred for what deserves it.”

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