Fathom Into Constellations

nostalgia

nostalgia

giving her house a spring clean, and accidentally bumping down a box from her bedroom shelf. a bit surprised, she reach to pick it up again, until her eyes fall on a familiar picture poking out of the top - its edges slightly frayed with age. as if hypnotised, she sat down on her bed, the fresh smell of lemons from the floral room scenter becoming mixed with the tickling dust covering the box. and when she open it, the solar rays manage to peek through the window shutters,, illuminating a whole pile of polaroids and pictures and journals in a teasingly golden glow. it was as if the sun itself wanted to see more, to know more. and just looking at the first photo alone, she could already feel herself being pulled to it, picking it up and running her fingers tenderly over the sides. she remained there for quite some time, staring frozen, at the achingly beautiful smiling face right next to hers.

beautiful. so painfully, painfully beautiful.

she still remember the first time she met him. her first day of summer vacation in amsterdam. this day should have faded away from her by now, she reprimand herself, but its as if her mind has another entity of its own, prizing it in its own special compartment of her heart; its own photo album that she wish she could bury away in the infinite camera roll of her memories. and it hurt all the more, because it was all him in her memories, her thoughts, the pace of her beating heart, the quickening of her breath. all him.

she was taking a midnight stroll through amsterdam, taking her own night tour in the flashing lights of the city. it would have been pitch black, if not the the gently buzzing glow of convenient stores and orange street lampposts. it was like a small, celestial-like haven seated right in the middle of bustling conversational warmth and late-night chatter of the odd couple walking down the empty cherry tree-lined streets. all was quiet.

she never would have expected, thus, to bump across a boy, seated on the bench facing the view of the very edge of the city skyline, blinking house lights reflecting off the still, rippling ebony river. his head was down, dark and ruffled hair hanging over his face in a jagged fringe and fists of anguish clenched on his thighs, with the only thing next to him being a rather worn out bike lying cluttered - abandoned - on the floor. it was a sight that she was almost too uncomfortable to stand in front of, till the keening sound of weeping started twisting her heart strings in ways she could only describe as agonising. it didn't take her long, therefore, to kneel down beside him, and silently offer a pack of unused tissues to his forebodingly shut-off demeanour. surprisingly, he accepted it without a word, leaving her to heave herself onto the bench next to him with a short sigh as she waited a bit for him to say something, anything.

"i'm sorry."

of course, she still remember the very first words he had spoken to her. his voice, as soft as a baby chick's feathers, as shaky as a trembling feather in the wind, as gentle as the zephyrs brushing flower petals, as dark as the stillest black of never-ending nights, and yet as familiar as the feeling of pen over parchment. she didn't know him at all, yet she knew him. it was in that moment, that her soul had never been fluttered as endearingly and powerfully as it had then.

she remember, with a nostalgic smile, scolding him for apologising. he looked shocked, as if apologising had simply been engrained into his mannerisms, his thoughts, the pained expression in his soulful gaze. but there was a smile on his face now, too, mirroring the shy one of her own. and it was enough.

spending the rest of the night quietly and companionably over takeaway chips and coca cola cans, there wasn't the usual fatigue she would have expected to weigh her heart as they both watched the golden embers of sunlight streak up from the horizon. it looked like a golden paintbrush had flecked little rays of warmth into the once-star-freckled canvas of the night, smearing smudges of pale sky blue with it into the inky black. and with the rise of the sun, was the soaring of her spirit. she wasn't sure exactly what it was, but that night. with the mysterious boy, and the silent city marvelling onwards; she had never experienced something so vivid yet surreal.

it became like an unspoken promise between the two of them, to meet every night at that same bench, by the same river, under the same cherry trees, and with the same stars to listen. she'd bring the food, he'd bring the drinks and blankets, her smiles growing an inch bigger with every passing dusk. and each night of simply talking and knowing each other's souls, she'd slowly feel yourself lean closer to him, till they were a breath away from each other - fingers almost touching, breaths falling into sync, her hair caressing his skin in shivering kisses every time the breeze happened to float past. and while it was all so gradual, it was the most breathtaking blast of emotion the either of her youths had experienced. it was like she both knew there was only one ocean she would arrive to, down the long winding river they both travelled, yet it was just as powerfully explosive as a million fireworks and colonies of butterflies bursting into the sky. and so when there was no more space to separate her lips, it was like they both breathed meaning into each other's beings and felt what it truly felt like, to truly be alive.

[ her breath. her life. her reason. her love. her hope. that's what he is, to her. she lived by this every single day after that night, to this very day. ]

it was shaky, conscious, shy, yet pure passion bound her hearts in a union of feelings that words would never do justice. it was all perfect for what a first love should be. but, as most first loves go, it doesn't last forever. and maybe for him, it didn't. which was why holding the word 'eternal' right next to her heart all by herself made the suffering twice as heavy as it should have been.

she had given him everything, her soul, her heart, her body. and no doubt he had given her all of him too. so when the last day of summer rolled round, she gave him his last kiss with the sweetest of smiles gracing her lips, oblivious to the conflicting storm brewing underneath his baby-innocent lashes. it was all so ironic as she look back now. she wasn't bitter about it, though, not at all. just disappointed at its end. it was so brief, yet piercing, as a lightning bolt striking the open flower meadows of her vulnerable heart, destroying all life that had once vibrated in its scintillatingly hopeful depths.

he would call, for a little while. but it didn't take him long to stop altogether, leaving her staring, lost, at her phone, at the start and end of every day. she never knew why, and she never asked. the emptiness of it all was strange, to say the least. how it happened and finished, rolling by with the natural course of time. for sure, the torture was - is, still - excruciatingly clear, just always there. but there was a bittersweetness to it, a euphoria made in a period of her life that she could capture in a small glass bottle, letting it float in the ocean of her. she would feel it stir her every now and then, catching in the middle of a sea storm, the rumble of heartbreak sleeping through her blood like poison. but it would pass.

holding the polaroid now, taken on a night-long cycle down city streets with him, its power enchanted her. like she fell into the illusion of holding a delicately ornate china vase right there in her fingers, its flowers reaching towards the dawn's light, fragile beauty etched into every crease and corner. she knew it was anything but that. it was only a fragment of the glass cradled in the scars and cuts of her hands, just a small broken piece of the picture that the two of them had painted - as lovers, and now as two strangers lost in the tide of time. it held its own timeless essence, despite its shortness in proportion to the ongoing story of her life.

all it lingers, all it holds, all it means.

this, him, her.

nostalgia.