This Love | ✓

Part 14

Leena,

Look, please don't shut me out and say you can't talk to me. I am truly, really, really, very sorry about what happened in school. It was just not okay. And I'm sorry.

I've been thinking a lot about the good times we've had and I miss you. You're my best friend! I mean, do you remember how we used to escape from Stalker Solomon during school? Remember all the times we've just hung out together, eating pizza and putting off homework? Remember how you hate capsicum on your pizza but I love it so you'd pick them out of your slice and give them to me? Remember how we wanted to bake a cake for my mother's birthday as a surprise? We couldn't bake it in my house because she would find out and we couldn't go to yours because the oven in your house was broken. So we begged the old lady that lived next door to my house to let us bake the cake in her kitchen. We were supposed to make a marble cake but it turned out more like a science experiment gone wrong. That old woman's house smelled like burnt vanilla for days. She never let us in again. We called it Cakemageddon, remember? It tasted disgusting but my mother pretended to love it anyway.

Leena, when I said I was homesick I meant it. I kept thinking about home and school and I realised that all the good memories I have of those years have one thing in common. You.

I feel like an idiot for letting our friendship slip away like this. I'm sorry, I really am. You have to forget what happened and forgive me. I've realised my mistake and I'm doing everything I can so that things go back to the way they used to be. But I can't do this by myself. I need you to forgive me. So, please.

Chris

Eighteen minutes had passed since I first read the email from Chris. I knew that because I hadn't taken my eyes off my phone since the notification had popped up. My vision blurred as I watched the tiny black numbers at the top of the screen change as every minute passed.

One part of me wanted to hug the phone tight to my chest.

He apologised. He missed me just as much as I missed him. We could be friends again.

Another part wanted to hurl the phone against the wall with all the strength I could muster.

Why won't he just leave me alone? Every time he sends me an email, I can't help but remember everything that happened.

Desperate for some fresh air, I climbed out of the queen-sized bed and headed towards the French windows. The moment I stepped onto the cool tiled floor of the balcony, I felt better. Several locks of my hair fell out of my loose ponytail, slapping against my cheeks as the ocean breeze floated around me.

The perfectly spherical moon and the sounds of the ocean cleared my mind. I watched the twinkling stars, each one brighter than the next, my shallow breaths steadying. It was as though someone had hit a Refresh button inside my brain. All the scattered, erratic thoughts that were swirling inside settled down into silence.

Sitting cross-legged on the balcony floor, I read Chris's email again. An inescapably strong wave of affection washed over me at the thought of him reminiscing about the good times we had had.

I dissolved into laughter when I remembered Mr Solomon. We had been his favourite students all through middle school, but neither of us took his high school history class. We didn't have anything against him; we just didn't want to study high school level history.

But every time we passed Mr Solomon's classroom, he would spot us through the glass windows and ask us to run errands for him. He made an effort to catch us every day, punishing us for dropping his class by constantly demanding help.

"Submit these papers to the front office."

"Ask Mrs Sharma for the teachers' register."

"My red pen is out of ink. Borrow one from another teacher for me."

Chris and I soon agreed that Stalker Solomon was the most appropriate nickname for our frazzled history teacher. Unfortunately, we had to cross his class every day in order to get to the school cafeteria. We would try everything from running past his class to getting down on all fours and crawling down the hallway in the rare occasion that it was empty.

With a sigh, I recalled giving up on trying to escape from Mr Solomon after Chris stopped talking to me. I stopped hiding and let the troublesome teacher catch me every day.

"Where's the boy, Chris?" he demanded when he caught me alone for the fifth day in a row.

"You're not going catch us together again, Mr Solomon," I retorted bitterly.

Stalker Solomon never asked me to run another errand for him again.

Tears welled up in my eyes when I glanced at the picture of Chris that appeared alongside the email.

The photo was of him sitting on a park bench in his Australian university campus. He was smiling toothily, his 5'11" frame sprawled across the seat. Vivid yellow and orange leaves swirled around his feet, the camera catching their motion in a blur. The sun shone on Chris from behind, creating a halo around his straight, dark hair.

I pictured Chris sitting behind his computer, begging for my forgiveness through email. I imagined him chewing on the inside of his cheek, the way he did when he was anxious. I envisioned his eyes — so black that I could never differentiate the iris from the pupil — narrowing as he wondered how to phrase his apology.

I knew beyond doubt that I would forgive him, but two conflicting thoughts battled for attention inside my head. These thoughts demanded to be heard with so much strength that neither the moon nor the ocean could silence them.

Why can't he call me and tell me all this over the phone, at least?

So what if he apologised through email? He means it, and that's what matters. Stop your overthinking and just forgive him!

I inhaled deeply and pressed Reply.

Chris,

Of course, I remember.

I was so mad at you when you just left me. I told myself that I would never forgive you. But I can't do that.

I have missed you so much. I wish we could go back in time and redo high school. We'd relive all the happy memories and we'd graduate high school as best friends. Like we were supposed to. But that's just wishful thinking.

Chris, I won't and I can't forget what happened but . . . I forgive you.

Leena

I closed my eyes briefly. The light from the phone's screen penetrated my eyelids, denying me the relief of darkness.

I thought back to Chris's profile picture. I imagined him breaking into a big, content smile at the sight of my reply. The notion of putting that smile on his face prompted me to open my eyes and give my reply a quick once-over.

The cursor blinked alongside my name at the bottom of the message. It almost seemed to ask, Well? Are you going to send it?

Yes.

I pressed send before walked back into the bedroom. Sliding the windows shut, I dove under the smooth covers on my bed, feeling an odd mixture of uncertainty, nostalgia, and happiness.

Eventually, out of sheer mental and physical exhaustion, I fell asleep.