Everything I Never Say ✓

[ four ]

Four

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I had a sudden interest in gymnastics, Daniel. I hope this one incident you remember—oh, I hope to god that you do.

Because it continues to touch my heart, to this very day, fourteen entire years later.

We went to the same school, you and I. This, of course you know and very well remember.

And I wanted to enroll in the gymnastics class there. I used to pass the huge gym hall when school was done, sneaking glances at the other students who were dressed in their attires and getting ready for after-school practices.

I used to watch longingly while running around the gym during P.E with a badminton racket in my hand, eyes on the other girls sprawled out on the gym mats, instead of on the shuttlecock.

"Mum," I once told her, "is it okay if I join gymnastics?"

She looked surprised when she glanced at me. "You're interest in gymnastics? Really? Since when, Debbie?"

I shrugged then. Because why did it matter when the sport caught my attention? All that mattered was that it did.

Why does it matter when I started falling for you, Daniel? All that matters is that I did, and still do.

"The gymnastics coach made an announcement," I told her, with an excited grin and all the enthusiasm my eight year old self could muster. "This whole week whoever wants to learn can come and apply, mum!"

"Okay, okay," she laughed. "If there's a form I need to fill or something, just ask your class teacher? Or your P.E teacher. And then I can sign you up for gymnastic classes."

I think I was over the clouds. So many of my friends were taking the class, and I wanted to too. Also, it looked fun. Hard, but fun. Energetic. Everyone seemed so active.

To this day, I wonder if I truly loved it and genuinely was interested in learning, or if I was just following the crowd and wanted to do something many friends of mine were involved in.

I used to be like that, then. A follower, and not a trendsetter.

I remember coming home one day, and finding Aunt Vivian there, with you sprawled out on the sofa, still in your uniform, socks and shoes thrown about, sleeves rolled up and shirt untucked from your pants. Of course you reached early—your mum picked you up whilst I travelled by school bus.

I remember thinking what a lazy boy you were. I was accustomed to putting all my things in its rightful place, you see. And then heading straight for the washroom and taking a shower before doing anything else.

But there you were, still in the uniform, dirty and sweaty, right in front of the television. Stupid, lazy boy.

And it annoyed me for some reason. Back when I was five, six... I had genuine reasons to be annoyed with you. To be mad. To be angry.

But then I was seven, and things got a little confusing, Daniel. It made me angry again.

And then I turned eight, and I was still angry and annoyed. But I didn't question it—which eight year old would?

There was no actual reason to be irritated with you, Daniel. It was harmless, you sitting in front of the television in your uniform. There was no reason to be angry. To be annoyed.

But I was. I saw you and I felt my nerves prickle with irritation.

"Why is he here?" I snapped, walking into the kitchen where mum was, away from your mother's earshot.

My mum looked positively taken aback. "Debbie!" She chided. "He'll hear you! Don't speak like that again. And why don't you like him being here? It's Daniel."

Yes, it was you. And that was the problem wasn't it?

I don't recall if I said something in return, but eventually I pulled out a slip from my bag and placed it on the kitchen counter.

"What's that?" Mum nodded towards the paper, squeezing lime over the salad she just made.

"Sports form," I grinned, momentarily forgetting your presence, "I already wrote my name and other details. I even ticked the box for gymnastics and crossed out the others. You just have to sign."

"About that, Debbie..." Mum threw the drained lime into the trashcan, and washed her hands. "I don't think you should go."

The smile dropped from my face—I had a tendency to make a fuss and pull a long face if things didn't go according to my plans. I have a feeling you hated that about me.

"Mum!" I banged my foot on the kitchen floor, annoyed beyond belief. I had a temper too, just as bad as yours. I was impatient too. A timebomb with a short fuse. "You said I could go!"

"Debbie, listen to me—"

"No," I shook my head, "you said I can go! I even brought the form! All my friends—"

"Deborah!" Mum snapped, looking angry herself. "Don't ever interrupt me again when I'm speaking to you. Ever." She shot me one of her infamous death glares that shut me up. "I was just telling Daniel about you wanting to go for gymnastics. And he said it's not a good idea."

"Daniel is a stupid, lazy boy that wants to sleep and watch TV all the time!" I said harshly. "That's why he thinks it's not a good idea."

Mum sighed and walked around the counter, before sitting down on a stool near me. "Debbie, he's telling it for your own good. Do you know that gym teacher? He's not such a good person, Deb."

I was confused, of course. I didn't get it then. "What do you mean? Does he hit the students?"

Mum shook her head. "No, Deb. But he's not very nice to the girls. He... He touches them in bad ways, okay? Daniel has friends who do gymnastics and so he knows these things."

Now that I think back to that particular conversation, I don't understand why I didn't ask my mum why that coach wasn't fired from the school. Why didn't I ask her that? Why didn't I ask her if any of the girls made complaints? Why didn't I ask her if there was a chance the rumour was just a rumour and had no truth to it?

All that I know now is what I knew then. That you, Daniel—you—cared enough about me despite all our fighting and arguing. That you had such a thoughtful and considerate mind buried underneath the constant teasing you sent my way.

I remember this so vehemently above all else because I think it was at this point, regardless of my age, that I realised anger and annoyance weren't the only emotions I was capable of when it came to you. There was a smudge of something else, Daniel.

Was it gratitude? A soft spot for someone I was very familiar with? Tolerance?

I didn't know what to name it then, and I can't recall that feeling well enough to be able to put a name on it now.

I wish now that you hadn't done it, Daniel. I wish so much these days for you to have not given me the tiniest hint that there was a part of you that cared for me—held concern for me. I wish you hadn't said a word to mum. I wish you had let me join the class.

No matter what might have happened to me, no matter how true those rumours could've been, I wish with every single part of my being that you had just let me be.

Because that was the first crack.

And the thing about a crack is that no matter how tiny, how narrow, it still serves as an opening. A way for something to be let in. To flow in. Gently. Steadily. Little by little. Drop by drop. So subtly that it goes unnoticed by the naked eye.

And then—then—to come flooding in when the volume is suddenly too much. Too much. Intense. Wave after wave. Gushing forth from all sides. The pressure becomes too much, and the crack widens, spreads over the surface until the surface itself shatters and everything—everything—comes pouring in. Rushing in.

In, and in, and in, and oh, Daniel, all these feelings never seem to go out.

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