~ Belle was too ethical to love Arthur. Grace was too busy trying to fit her emotions into equations, graphs and models to love him. Art was too busy loving other people to love himself…~
Belle was too ethical to love Arthur. She would have waited for him. In fact, she did. That night, she waited for him in an inconspicuous corner of the hall, but he didn’t come. It was none of his fault. It was that damned Justin who got all her hopes floating high. Well, it wasn’t entirely his fault either. Everyone - or at least everyone that she knew at that point in time – thought Arthur was madly in love with Belle and that should just be the way things were. Yet, she did not have him. She could not love him. It wasn’t Grace’s fault either; she looked too decent to be an evil mastermind. Moreover, Belle somehow knew, that she was utterly clueless about the grave mistake that NOBODY had committed. Yes, it was nobody’s fault. Isabelle Kim Brenner, might, or might not love him still, but she was well aware that it was against her ethical frame of reference to love Grace’s boyfriend...
Grace was too busy trying to fit her emotions into equations, graphs and models to love Arthur. They had been together but she did not know how to prove that it was love that exists between them, that it was love which she felt towards Art. No equation could help her arrive at a conclusive proof. Many other things could fit together, but not love – which had mysteriously become a perfect fit and a misfit at the same time. Needless to say, it was well beyond the scope of Bioengineering. Not all bioengineers do that. Only Grace does. If bioengineers could construct models for biological functions and processes, why can’t they construct a model for human emotions? Grace wasn’t weird or anything. She was a normal girl, sweet, smart, idealistic at times but practical when required and “hot professional material” – as Jessica, her former high school classmate attributed her. One thing about her: she constructed those models in secret, when she had too much free time or too much work to do, when she felt lonely and uncertain. When she was too happy or too sad. When Art wasn’t there at her side. Or when he was there…She was the girl who refused to be stopped. The girl who believed that love is complex yet simple, irrational but real...
Arthur was too busy loving other people to love himself. Well, he used to. He indulged himself in his plethora of ideas, in the art of everything and the omnipresence of art. Hence his nickname. But he had found himself trained – not only his skills, but also his emotions and his entire being – to be a doctor. It was an art too, of a different kind. And he had learnt the art of loving. The art of loving is that …you …can’t love yourself.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Sunday, June 7, 2009
A Tempestuous Journey Home (Part 3 - sort of Final)
I walked along the narrow pavement, trying to stay close to the wall of the minimarket and the waffle shop, the only shelter I had. My umbrella was too flimsy that it had to flip every five seconds. I watched the makeshift hawker tents fluttering in the gale, thinking that it would be best for me to stay by the concrete buildings, and I stopped. I was thinking about Arthur, more than everything else.
He was obviously too preoccupied with his essay to even notice, let alone be bothered by the storm outside. If, if only the confirmation had been there in his pigeon hole…I could pick it up. Then, at least I would have one valid reason to go and see him… If, if only his apartment was conveniently along the way, I could drop by and ask if I could wait till the storm subsides…then, at least I would be able to see him, even for a second.
“Excuses! Excuses! Just tell me what it is!”
Heads turned. A woman in her thirties, dressed in T-shirt and Capri blasted at a tall, tanned man in a business suit, who appeared to put on an aloof front. I had no idea who they were but they had certainly seized the attention of the crowed under the shelter. What could they be quarrelling over? Excuses? What kind of excuses?
Excuses…Damn! Do I even need excuses just to see Arthur? I ran back to the bus stop, holding on to my umbrella, just in time for bus number seven to stop. I hopped in. What if Arthur was annoyed by my sudden appearance? What if I had no good reason to interrupt his work? What if…I didn’t know what to think. The thought of seeing him gives me a thrill and a fright at the same time. Unlike the usual, I felt that I came so unprepared… I wish I could hide somewhere…but I was determined to live without excuses.
Seventh floor, unit 135. I knocked on the door. Arthur opened the door.
“Hey, come in! What brings you here?” He blurted out in surprise. Further behind, Isabelle was sitting on the sofa, sipping coffee.
“Hi… Isabelle…what a surprise…what are you doing here?” I asked.
“I was on my way to your house when the rain started to pour, so he kindly let me take a shelter until it stops,” She replied calmly with a smile, “And you…why are you here so suddenly?”
“I…I don’t need excuses.”
There was a moment of silence, where I felt that everyone was looking at everyone else's eyes. No more excuses.
He was obviously too preoccupied with his essay to even notice, let alone be bothered by the storm outside. If, if only the confirmation had been there in his pigeon hole…I could pick it up. Then, at least I would have one valid reason to go and see him… If, if only his apartment was conveniently along the way, I could drop by and ask if I could wait till the storm subsides…then, at least I would be able to see him, even for a second.
“Excuses! Excuses! Just tell me what it is!”
Heads turned. A woman in her thirties, dressed in T-shirt and Capri blasted at a tall, tanned man in a business suit, who appeared to put on an aloof front. I had no idea who they were but they had certainly seized the attention of the crowed under the shelter. What could they be quarrelling over? Excuses? What kind of excuses?
Excuses…Damn! Do I even need excuses just to see Arthur? I ran back to the bus stop, holding on to my umbrella, just in time for bus number seven to stop. I hopped in. What if Arthur was annoyed by my sudden appearance? What if I had no good reason to interrupt his work? What if…I didn’t know what to think. The thought of seeing him gives me a thrill and a fright at the same time. Unlike the usual, I felt that I came so unprepared… I wish I could hide somewhere…but I was determined to live without excuses.
Seventh floor, unit 135. I knocked on the door. Arthur opened the door.
“Hey, come in! What brings you here?” He blurted out in surprise. Further behind, Isabelle was sitting on the sofa, sipping coffee.
“Hi… Isabelle…what a surprise…what are you doing here?” I asked.
“I was on my way to your house when the rain started to pour, so he kindly let me take a shelter until it stops,” She replied calmly with a smile, “And you…why are you here so suddenly?”
“I…I don’t need excuses.”
There was a moment of silence, where I felt that everyone was looking at everyone else's eyes. No more excuses.
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
A Tempestuous Journey Home (Part 2)
It was just past lunch hour, so the traffic was rather heavy. The honking car horns faded into less than a background noise. They were muted. I was sitting at the bus stop opposite the university students' centre where we had our lunch. I deliberately skipped the passing thought about an introductory lecture at two-thirty.
"No, I did not remember it!" I forced myself to remember that I had supposedly forgotten about the lecture completely, not that I intended to skip it, neither that I had no intent to go for it.
Cars passed by - not so smoothly - before my eyes. They honked relentlessly but I did not hear a sound. They were like some old mute motion picture, where you would know what was going on and what sound was supposed to come out even when you didn't hear anything. Bus number 19 passed by and I ignored it. Never before in my life had a girl made me feel this way. Lost. Disoriented.
Who had ever tread this thin layer of ice? So thin and cracking. The only image I could see beyond the crack was a dark sky, spiralling water, towering cumulonimbus cloud. Torrential rain. Trees bending. I lifted my head and I knew that I wasn't daydreaming. Water bullets were fired straight to my face despite the supposed shelter the bus stop gave. The gushing water wasn't under the ice sheet. It was under the concrete drain covers. Yet, I could feel myself drowning in it. I thought I had been there forever - at the bus stop - but I looked around and I saw the same people I saw way before the storm. Did time stop? No. It had only been fifteen minutes. No bus had come ever since the last number nineteen. The scorching sun had gone under the thick, dark grey, wings of fate just within a brief fifteen minutes. Those wings were flapping. Flapping. Flapping, but not flying. Who are you waiting for, dark-grey-winged creature?
One-nine. I flagged the bus. Finally. I felt a vibration right after I was seated.
“Hi, Art!”
I called him ‘Art’ because he used to (he still did, sometimes) argue that everything – from Science to politics to Medicine – is art. I would believe what he said, but that didn't usually last very long.
"Yes, I checked your pigeon hole. There was nothing."
"You're welcome."
I paused for a moment.
"Thanks a lot, Grace. You know, I'm still stuck at the last bit of my essay. OK, back to work. See ya," I heard Arthur's distant voice.
"All the best, Art!" I replied - in an inaudible sort of scream. Just in time for me to get out of the comfort of the bus, out into the raging storm.
I was thinking...why...why did I have to face the storm again? And Arthur too. Why? Was the confirmation letter the only thing he needed to know? Was it the most important thing in this stormy weather?
[to be continued]
"No, I did not remember it!" I forced myself to remember that I had supposedly forgotten about the lecture completely, not that I intended to skip it, neither that I had no intent to go for it.
Cars passed by - not so smoothly - before my eyes. They honked relentlessly but I did not hear a sound. They were like some old mute motion picture, where you would know what was going on and what sound was supposed to come out even when you didn't hear anything. Bus number 19 passed by and I ignored it. Never before in my life had a girl made me feel this way. Lost. Disoriented.
Who had ever tread this thin layer of ice? So thin and cracking. The only image I could see beyond the crack was a dark sky, spiralling water, towering cumulonimbus cloud. Torrential rain. Trees bending. I lifted my head and I knew that I wasn't daydreaming. Water bullets were fired straight to my face despite the supposed shelter the bus stop gave. The gushing water wasn't under the ice sheet. It was under the concrete drain covers. Yet, I could feel myself drowning in it. I thought I had been there forever - at the bus stop - but I looked around and I saw the same people I saw way before the storm. Did time stop? No. It had only been fifteen minutes. No bus had come ever since the last number nineteen. The scorching sun had gone under the thick, dark grey, wings of fate just within a brief fifteen minutes. Those wings were flapping. Flapping. Flapping, but not flying. Who are you waiting for, dark-grey-winged creature?
One-nine. I flagged the bus. Finally. I felt a vibration right after I was seated.
“Hi, Art!”
I called him ‘Art’ because he used to (he still did, sometimes) argue that everything – from Science to politics to Medicine – is art. I would believe what he said, but that didn't usually last very long.
"Yes, I checked your pigeon hole. There was nothing."
"You're welcome."
I paused for a moment.
"Thanks a lot, Grace. You know, I'm still stuck at the last bit of my essay. OK, back to work. See ya," I heard Arthur's distant voice.
"All the best, Art!" I replied - in an inaudible sort of scream. Just in time for me to get out of the comfort of the bus, out into the raging storm.
I was thinking...why...why did I have to face the storm again? And Arthur too. Why? Was the confirmation letter the only thing he needed to know? Was it the most important thing in this stormy weather?
[to be continued]
Friday, May 1, 2009
Mayday! (and poverty)
Why does Labour Day holiday have to be on the first of May?
This results in my temporary poverty which will last until Monday 2pm because:
1. This month's pay was paid in cheque - which will only be added to my account on the next clearing day (Monday...)how depressing!
2. My part-time job salary which is supposed to be paid on the 1st of the month is delayed till the next working day...which is...Monday
3. I deposited this months savings (in coins) today and it will only be added to my account on...Monday
All because tomorrow, 1st of May, is Labour day. Why can't it be on the 5th May instead?
Ah, long weekend spent in virtual poverty. How saddening - though not as sad as real poverty. I hope I will learn my lesson through this painful long weekend...
Speaking of which, I am going to explore on the theme of 'relative poverty' in the next story, which will probably be an ongoing series. Anyway, that should come after the continuation of "A Tempestuous Journey Home", which will be ready by...Monday!
When poverty strikes, don't go out. Finish your work. ~ Mel
This results in my temporary poverty which will last until Monday 2pm because:
1. This month's pay was paid in cheque - which will only be added to my account on the next clearing day (Monday...)how depressing!
2. My part-time job salary which is supposed to be paid on the 1st of the month is delayed till the next working day...which is...Monday
3. I deposited this months savings (in coins) today and it will only be added to my account on...Monday
All because tomorrow, 1st of May, is Labour day. Why can't it be on the 5th May instead?
Ah, long weekend spent in virtual poverty. How saddening - though not as sad as real poverty. I hope I will learn my lesson through this painful long weekend...
Speaking of which, I am going to explore on the theme of 'relative poverty' in the next story, which will probably be an ongoing series. Anyway, that should come after the continuation of "A Tempestuous Journey Home", which will be ready by...Monday!
When poverty strikes, don't go out. Finish your work. ~ Mel
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
The Phone Call
My handphone doesn't ring, doesn't vibrate and does not give any signal when a new message comes in. I can call people, but they can't call me back. Or, rather, they can call me but I won't know if they do. So, what's the point? Anyway, no one ever calls me, so it doesn't matter.
I have called countless people, but no one ever calls me. I remember them. They might have remembered me, in a good way, but more often in a not-so-good way.
Friday, April 24, 2009
A Tempestuous Journey Home (Part 1)
A Tempestuous Journey Home
“Grace,” Isabelle waved from her seat. Her friendly smile never ceased to intrigue me. I had heard stories about perfection, but I had never seen one in my life. Oddly enough, the girl sitting before me, who looked ordinarily cute, seemed to shine a bashful confidence and an aura of perfection. An incredibly strong one. So strong that I wondered why Arthur left her. For me.
“Hi, Belle! I wouldn’t have expected to see you here. You lived on the other end…” I was praying it did not sound too suggestive of what had been weighing in my mind.
“Pretty much, yeah. I had to submit a few documents to the university office,” she answered calmly, yet cheerfully, while sipping her peach tea.
“Here?” I was too stumped to say anything more intelligent.
“Yup. I was selected for the joint research programme. It’s a nice campus that you have here, Grace. I’ll be around here for the three days – a pretty nice change,” she replied.
“Umm, but don’t you have to travel too far?” I asked for the sake of asking.
“About an hour on the train everyday plus a few minutes of bus ride. I don’t think it’s much of a problem for me, though. I’m kinda looking forward to it. I believe this research is worth my extra effort,” Isabelle answered enthusiastically.
“Eh, you know what? You can actually stay at my place for the next few days. It’s only five minutes from here. Saves you a lot of time and energy,” I blabbered out before realizing what I actually said. I offered a girl I barely knew to stay at my apartment. Sheila, my best friend since junior high school was the only person who had ever stayed over at my place.
I found it extremely queer that something about Isabelle keeps drawing me towards her. I just couldn’t leave her alone. She seemed so effortless in handling everything. She said yes and thanked me without the slightest tinge of doubt.
We did not mention Arthur’s name in our conversation, but somehow I felt that his name kept ringing and whispering into my ears, pounding in my head. I heard it in every single breath we took. It echoed through every silence and filled up every pause. I could see Isabelle gliding gracefully through the thin sheet of ice as we talked while I... I was struggling to breathe inside the dark, cold water, almost drowning.
“Grace,” Isabelle waved from her seat. Her friendly smile never ceased to intrigue me. I had heard stories about perfection, but I had never seen one in my life. Oddly enough, the girl sitting before me, who looked ordinarily cute, seemed to shine a bashful confidence and an aura of perfection. An incredibly strong one. So strong that I wondered why Arthur left her. For me.
“Hi, Belle! I wouldn’t have expected to see you here. You lived on the other end…” I was praying it did not sound too suggestive of what had been weighing in my mind.
“Pretty much, yeah. I had to submit a few documents to the university office,” she answered calmly, yet cheerfully, while sipping her peach tea.
“Here?” I was too stumped to say anything more intelligent.
“Yup. I was selected for the joint research programme. It’s a nice campus that you have here, Grace. I’ll be around here for the three days – a pretty nice change,” she replied.
“Umm, but don’t you have to travel too far?” I asked for the sake of asking.
“About an hour on the train everyday plus a few minutes of bus ride. I don’t think it’s much of a problem for me, though. I’m kinda looking forward to it. I believe this research is worth my extra effort,” Isabelle answered enthusiastically.
“Eh, you know what? You can actually stay at my place for the next few days. It’s only five minutes from here. Saves you a lot of time and energy,” I blabbered out before realizing what I actually said. I offered a girl I barely knew to stay at my apartment. Sheila, my best friend since junior high school was the only person who had ever stayed over at my place.
I found it extremely queer that something about Isabelle keeps drawing me towards her. I just couldn’t leave her alone. She seemed so effortless in handling everything. She said yes and thanked me without the slightest tinge of doubt.
We did not mention Arthur’s name in our conversation, but somehow I felt that his name kept ringing and whispering into my ears, pounding in my head. I heard it in every single breath we took. It echoed through every silence and filled up every pause. I could see Isabelle gliding gracefully through the thin sheet of ice as we talked while I... I was struggling to breathe inside the dark, cold water, almost drowning.
Arthur and Grace
I got carried away editing the short story "Reasons" and decided to give a lot more depth to the characters. So, you will definitely see more short stories about Arthur, Grace, their friends and their daily lives coming.
My First Post
Since this is the first post (which was published second due to technical issue...), I would like to welcome all of you to my new blog: The Glass, The Snow. This blog will be a place where I express my thoughts and feelings in various ways, mainly through writing. There will be a few ongoing short novels and a number of independent short stories, so don't get confused. I will do my best to organize them in the most reader-friendly manner.
Again, unless otherwise stated, the content published in this blog is mine.
Enough of this nonsense. I have largely chosen themes that are universal so that everyone can truly feel with me the joy of living. Hope you enjoy reading...Comments and feedback are most welcome!
Again, unless otherwise stated, the content published in this blog is mine.
Enough of this nonsense. I have largely chosen themes that are universal so that everyone can truly feel with me the joy of living. Hope you enjoy reading...Comments and feedback are most welcome!
Reasons
Life is a continuous quest. We quest for dreams. We quest for the meaning of life. We quest for the future. Self-fulfilment. Everything. Some people try very hard; strive for their dreams event though the dream might only last for one moment. Unfortunately, people often forget that precious moment as the shards of their shattered dream, hardship, heartbreak and dreadful past sweep into their memories, crushing the precious memory of their sweetest moments. I want to tell you: treasure the moment. Your sweetest moment. Dig all the rubbles of your past away from your memory. Pick up the precious moment, keep it and let it shine in your heart.
Those words in the letter had been bothering me for the past two days. It was not a usual letter one would expect to be sent from a war zone in Afghanistan. Well, he did not normally send letters. He had been sending emails about how he wanted the war to end soon and how he would not want to go had he been given the choice. Of course, who would?
“You know, the position of paramedics is often more precarious than the soldiers themselves. As much as I want to save lives, I can feel my soul taken away bit by bit,” Arthur said in one of his mails.
I clicked to the next mail.
“I am still safe here but one never knows about tomorrow. Not even the next minute, if a shell decides to land on this camp right after I click the ‘send’ button. I will not worry about tomorrow, or rather, I must not. From this war, I have learnt to live in the present”
I wonder whether war really takes away one’s soul. I wonder what he was thinking about and what has brought him to write such a letter. The doorbell rang. It was the newspaper guy. I made myself a cup of cappuccino and flipped through the newspaper. A huge “WELCOME BACK” headline.
“Oh, dear! How can I forget this? He is coming back… today!” I exclaimed.
I jumped from my seat, dashing towards the corner of my room. Near the door, there was a hanging pocket where I always kept my letters. I was searching the pocket anxiously. A piece of paper, scrawled over with notes and figures, dropped onto the floor, followed by a pale green envelope.
I opened the envelope. The letter inside was not as smooth as it had been when I first received it. A few crumples here and there indicated that this letter had been read hundreds of times. Yet, I had not touched it for more than eight months. I reread the letter dated one year ago. Three hundred and sixty four days, to be exact. Arthur gave it to me just before he left for Afghanistan.
“You know that I can’t guarantee that I will be back and I don’t want you to be tied by such an empty promise. However, I want you to know that if I am able to return, I will be waiting for you somewhere. It is the place where you will remember your sweetest moment. Don’t worry about me. I just want to make sure that I will not be meeting someone I don’t know. I will tell you when, but not where.”
It was his style. He loved to make people confused. He likes putting thousands of questions in one’s head. Especially mine.
I looked out of the window. The bustle of the city had started. I was too tempted to rush to the airport, but I should know him better. I could not remember what he meant by my sweetest moment. I did not seem to remember anything especially sweet. A lot of things had happened. Some of them are sweet memories and many of them painful ones. What he said was right. My painful memories have crushed and hidden my precious sweetest moment and now I could not find it anywhere.
I could have asked him where it is. However, it hurts to realize that my sweetest memory was gone. Moreover, it would only hurt Arthur even more. He hated empty words.
I started to recall places where we had been together. Too many. Impossible. I sighed, “I can’t remember anything!” Beads of tears rolled down my cheeks. Will he be really hurt? More than I am?
“Am I stupid? Is it my own fault…falling for someone like him? How on earth could I love him? He always gives me a lot of headaches…and now…” I started to question myself.
Suddenly, I found those questions familiar. Was is just an odd sense of déjà vu? Or had it really happened? I was quite sure that I had heard of it before, even though it seemed so long ago…
***
“Hey…He’s a strange guy.”
“Who?”
“Your boyfriend.”
“What?Why?”
“How can you fall in love with such a weirdo? I mean… it wasn’t as if no one likes you…” I faintly heard a voice asking a similar question. It was my friend, Gladys. Eventually, a clear picture of what happened three years ago was formed in my memory, like a jigsaw puzzle. I remembered Gladys sprung from the sofa in my living room with an expression of disbelieve.
“Well, love does not need a reason,” I replied.
Then, more pictures appeared. After Gladys went home, I waited for Arthur to fetch me. I told him about my conversation with Gladys. I told him that love does not need a reason. Suddenly, the unforgettable vivid facial expression came across. The big frown in his forehead. He slapped me. I was bewildered and speechless then. I did not even dare to ask why. His eyes were gleaming with anger and some sort of dissatisfaction.
“Who are you to say that love needs no reason! Such people united in the name of love and separated because there was no more love for no reason…leaving behind a poor, confused and hopeless child like me! How can love – something that I treasure most in my life - be reduced to such an unreasonable and irresponsible thing! First, my parents, and now, you, are about to drag me into that dark pitfall of blind love!”
I was overwhelmed with shock.
“But, reasons…” I barely finished my sentence when Arthur hugged me. He said sorry and I was finally able to look into his deep, gentle eyes. I understood what he meant. Reasons for love – they are not logical, but there are reasons. The reason why we can’t point out the reason why we love is because those reasons are different, and there are just to many. So many that even if the person we love changes, we can still love because of those reasons.
“It is like building a house. If the house is a family, love is the walls and pillars supporting the house, and the reasons for love will be the firm foundation upon which those pillars stand. When the foundation is a hollow, the house, the family, will collapse easily,” Arthur spoke to me with the firmest but gentlest tone I’ve ever heard.
***
Then, I found the reasons why I loved him. When he slapped me, I found the very reason why I was able to love him. That was the sweetest moment in my life. I glanced at the letter again. I knew that even though he said that he didn’t want to meet someone he didn’t know, he actually intended to help me to rediscover the reasons I love him.
“The…the place!” I jumped out of my chair and rushed out. If I wasn’t wrong, it should be right there…right outside my house. I grabbed the key and rushed out.
No one.
“Why?!” I was almost sure…then I remembered. Maybe, maybe he was really unable to make it back? I heard they sometimes hid the names of the people who didn’t come back, and they could just be missing forever. This thought sent a chill down my spine. I broke down and cried so hard that I could not remember anything.
The first thing I saw when I open my eyes was a tall figure, standing cross armed in front of me.
“Arthur?”
“Oh, wow, and who’s supposed to be waiting?” His typical casual, sarcastic remarks sent an electrical impulse to my half-dead brain.
“You’re back,” I had nothing else to say.
“I have all my reasons to be back,” he replied.
Those words in the letter had been bothering me for the past two days. It was not a usual letter one would expect to be sent from a war zone in Afghanistan. Well, he did not normally send letters. He had been sending emails about how he wanted the war to end soon and how he would not want to go had he been given the choice. Of course, who would?
“You know, the position of paramedics is often more precarious than the soldiers themselves. As much as I want to save lives, I can feel my soul taken away bit by bit,” Arthur said in one of his mails.
I clicked to the next mail.
“I am still safe here but one never knows about tomorrow. Not even the next minute, if a shell decides to land on this camp right after I click the ‘send’ button. I will not worry about tomorrow, or rather, I must not. From this war, I have learnt to live in the present”
I wonder whether war really takes away one’s soul. I wonder what he was thinking about and what has brought him to write such a letter. The doorbell rang. It was the newspaper guy. I made myself a cup of cappuccino and flipped through the newspaper. A huge “WELCOME BACK” headline.
“Oh, dear! How can I forget this? He is coming back… today!” I exclaimed.
I jumped from my seat, dashing towards the corner of my room. Near the door, there was a hanging pocket where I always kept my letters. I was searching the pocket anxiously. A piece of paper, scrawled over with notes and figures, dropped onto the floor, followed by a pale green envelope.
I opened the envelope. The letter inside was not as smooth as it had been when I first received it. A few crumples here and there indicated that this letter had been read hundreds of times. Yet, I had not touched it for more than eight months. I reread the letter dated one year ago. Three hundred and sixty four days, to be exact. Arthur gave it to me just before he left for Afghanistan.
“You know that I can’t guarantee that I will be back and I don’t want you to be tied by such an empty promise. However, I want you to know that if I am able to return, I will be waiting for you somewhere. It is the place where you will remember your sweetest moment. Don’t worry about me. I just want to make sure that I will not be meeting someone I don’t know. I will tell you when, but not where.”
It was his style. He loved to make people confused. He likes putting thousands of questions in one’s head. Especially mine.
I looked out of the window. The bustle of the city had started. I was too tempted to rush to the airport, but I should know him better. I could not remember what he meant by my sweetest moment. I did not seem to remember anything especially sweet. A lot of things had happened. Some of them are sweet memories and many of them painful ones. What he said was right. My painful memories have crushed and hidden my precious sweetest moment and now I could not find it anywhere.
I could have asked him where it is. However, it hurts to realize that my sweetest memory was gone. Moreover, it would only hurt Arthur even more. He hated empty words.
I started to recall places where we had been together. Too many. Impossible. I sighed, “I can’t remember anything!” Beads of tears rolled down my cheeks. Will he be really hurt? More than I am?
“Am I stupid? Is it my own fault…falling for someone like him? How on earth could I love him? He always gives me a lot of headaches…and now…” I started to question myself.
Suddenly, I found those questions familiar. Was is just an odd sense of déjà vu? Or had it really happened? I was quite sure that I had heard of it before, even though it seemed so long ago…
***
“Hey…He’s a strange guy.”
“Who?”
“Your boyfriend.”
“What?Why?”
“How can you fall in love with such a weirdo? I mean… it wasn’t as if no one likes you…” I faintly heard a voice asking a similar question. It was my friend, Gladys. Eventually, a clear picture of what happened three years ago was formed in my memory, like a jigsaw puzzle. I remembered Gladys sprung from the sofa in my living room with an expression of disbelieve.
“Well, love does not need a reason,” I replied.
Then, more pictures appeared. After Gladys went home, I waited for Arthur to fetch me. I told him about my conversation with Gladys. I told him that love does not need a reason. Suddenly, the unforgettable vivid facial expression came across. The big frown in his forehead. He slapped me. I was bewildered and speechless then. I did not even dare to ask why. His eyes were gleaming with anger and some sort of dissatisfaction.
“Who are you to say that love needs no reason! Such people united in the name of love and separated because there was no more love for no reason…leaving behind a poor, confused and hopeless child like me! How can love – something that I treasure most in my life - be reduced to such an unreasonable and irresponsible thing! First, my parents, and now, you, are about to drag me into that dark pitfall of blind love!”
I was overwhelmed with shock.
“But, reasons…” I barely finished my sentence when Arthur hugged me. He said sorry and I was finally able to look into his deep, gentle eyes. I understood what he meant. Reasons for love – they are not logical, but there are reasons. The reason why we can’t point out the reason why we love is because those reasons are different, and there are just to many. So many that even if the person we love changes, we can still love because of those reasons.
“It is like building a house. If the house is a family, love is the walls and pillars supporting the house, and the reasons for love will be the firm foundation upon which those pillars stand. When the foundation is a hollow, the house, the family, will collapse easily,” Arthur spoke to me with the firmest but gentlest tone I’ve ever heard.
***
Then, I found the reasons why I loved him. When he slapped me, I found the very reason why I was able to love him. That was the sweetest moment in my life. I glanced at the letter again. I knew that even though he said that he didn’t want to meet someone he didn’t know, he actually intended to help me to rediscover the reasons I love him.
“The…the place!” I jumped out of my chair and rushed out. If I wasn’t wrong, it should be right there…right outside my house. I grabbed the key and rushed out.
No one.
“Why?!” I was almost sure…then I remembered. Maybe, maybe he was really unable to make it back? I heard they sometimes hid the names of the people who didn’t come back, and they could just be missing forever. This thought sent a chill down my spine. I broke down and cried so hard that I could not remember anything.
The first thing I saw when I open my eyes was a tall figure, standing cross armed in front of me.
“Arthur?”
“Oh, wow, and who’s supposed to be waiting?” His typical casual, sarcastic remarks sent an electrical impulse to my half-dead brain.
“You’re back,” I had nothing else to say.
“I have all my reasons to be back,” he replied.
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