Art of Life

Chapter ONE: On The Move

I lay in my soft, cozy double bed, the silky sheets cool against my skin, offering a welcome relief from the warm summer night in Wellington. The faint sounds of the city—distant laughter, the rustle of leaves in the evening breeze, and the occasional honk of a car—drifted through my window, mingling with my thoughts. As I gather my late-night musings, I find myself reflecting on life and the friendships I've built over the years. Memories of my hometown begin to surface, igniting a quiet ache for the familiar, and I realize how profoundly I miss it. The thought saddens me, especially the loss of contact with everyone from my primary school days—a part of my past that now feels distant and out of reach.

I was born in Phnom Penh, the bustling capital of Cambodia and one of the most populous cities in Southeast Asia. I loved the vibrant energy of the city—its streets alive with activity, day and night. The air was filled with the irresistible aromas of street food, from sizzling skewers of marinated meat to sweet, sticky rice cakes, all available at any hour. This constant culinary symphony was a reminder of the city's rich culture. People moved through the busy traffic with purpose, weaving through the chaotic flow, their faces reflecting a myriad of stories. There was always something happening, a rhythm of the city that never seemed to sleep.

I come from a small, close-knit family of four: my older brother, Petter, who is two years ahead of me; my mother, Tia, a hardworking woman with an unwavering spirit and a nurturing heart; and my father, Lina, whose love for me and my brother is a steady foundation in our lives. Growing up, we leaned on each other—our bond strengthened by the simplicity of our lives. We didn't have much, but there was always enough—enough food on the table, enough warmth in our home, and enough love to make it feel full. My parents instilled in me the importance of gratitude, often reminding me that somewhere, someone else would trade anything to have the very things we often take for granted.

Our family moved often, mostly in search of a better life. My earliest memory of moving was in Year Five, though I was too young to recall the exact details—what street we lived on or even our house number. The memories are hazy and fragmented, like pieces of a puzzle that never quite fit together. Before we moved away, I had a friend named Nat, who lived next door to my English school. We spent countless afternoons together, her laughter brightening my days. Nat was calm and collected, always sporting the prettiest stationery and the most beautiful hairstyles at school, with ribbons and clips that seemed to dance as she moved.

We were around six or seven at the time, and I have fond memories of us sitting in class, coloring Disney princess books with our favorite crayons, and sharing cakes from the bakery across the road, the sweet smell still lingering in my mind. I even remember being invited to her house for tea after sports, where we would sip sugary milk tea and nibble on biscuits while giggling over our latest adventures. From the back of her house, I could see the stairway leading to our English school, a constant reminder of how intertwined our lives were. Nat was one of the first people I considered a best friend, a title I cherished deeply.

However, things would change when she was around her other friend. She acted differently, and it confused me. I often asked her why, and she would always give the same response: "We're family friends. I see her on weekends, and our parents are close. I don't want to be too close with you in case she gets jealous." At the time, I didn't fully understand what jealousy was or why she felt the need to behave that way, but it didn't bother me much then. As long as we were having fun together, that was all that mattered.

Not long after, we moved to a different town, about 10 kilometers away, across the main road and down the river, to a small, tight-knit village on the edge of the city. The town was compact, with houses built closely together, and it felt like everyone knew each other's business. It wasn't the safest neighborhood; there was a roughness to the streets, with cracked pavements and the occasional stray dog wandering by, yet most people were kind and welcoming. A palpable sense of community prevailed, as neighbors greeted one another with warm smiles and looked out for each other, even amidst the challenges the area presented. The narrow streets were often filled with children playing, their laughter ringing out as they rode bicycles or kicked soccer balls, while groups of adults chatted by their front doors, keeping a watchful eye on their surroundings.