/1

News, always about words: about people, life and living, things, relationships, everything or at least some of it.

“Not broken,” I said. “But not quite alright, either.”

I just shrugged, saying that sometimes people are like objects or devices, not always understandable, and even if they are, it’s often so difficult. Sometimes they can be like a radio or television, sometimes there’s just static and we don’t know what it means, whether the device is broken or there are simply no waves to display or broadcast.

The girl in front of me took a tissue, placed it on the table, and then fiddled with it using a fork. I just watched her, reminding her to be careful as the table might get scratched, although that would depend on the force and pressure applied. The fork itself wasn’t very sharp, at least from my observation, so I didn’t think it was something to worry too much about.

Scratch, scratch, scratch, scratch

“It’s annoying, isn’t it, things like that.”

I didn’t comment. White fragments seemed to litter the table, whether from the torn tissue or a shattered heart.

Wiping her eyes with her sleeve, she briefly said something.

“It’s like people will see it later, and it’ll seem like I’m heartbroken because you just rejected me. That’s annoying.”

I smiled, saying that we can’t always expect people to have an opinion that matches the reality we’re experiencing. It’s like that everywhere, so it’s not something to be overly concerned about.

For some reason, I felt I had been a little heartless.

/2

Several floors up from the ground floor of the building, this place is divided into three partitions: the central side with its corridor, the left wing with many people and things coming and going, and the right wing with many other people working in their respective places: administration, sales, meeting rooms, and so on.

I walked through the corridor a little slower than usual. On the left were rows of meeting rooms, while at the end of the corridor were the rooms and cubicles in the right wing. On one of many busy days, there was a bit of lingering fatigue, but just like in a football match, this was a moment when a goalkeeper was being bombarded by midfielders and attackers who kept failing to change the score.

We crossed paths in the corridor when I was about to press the button to open the door. A girl from the next department, roughly my age.

“They said you’re sick, what’s wrong? Never mind, don’t come in. Just rest…”

“Oh, it’s nothing. Don’t worry.”

She said something about ‘feeling a little guilty,’ but I told her that it wasn’t something she needed to think about. After all, I just wanted to finish what I called ‘responsibility,’ and at least I was saying something honest, so I told her it wasn’t a problem and she should relax about it a bit more.

What I didn’t say was that I preferred to be here and get things done than to not come in and do nothing at all. There are things I prefer to work off, whether others would understand that, I didn’t really know.

I tried to smile before leaving her at the door without really answering her question.

What should I have said? ‘Hepatic fracture‘?

/3

“Can I call you?”

A text message arrived on my phone. I replied that I was on my way, but in ten to fifteen minutes, we should be able to chat comfortably. About twenty minutes later, I received an incoming call that I answered after three or four rings.

“Hello?”

On the other end of the phone, I heard her voice. Still the same, with the bright, cheerful tone I had heard since I first met her. Eight years, nine years, maybe too much time had passed, I don’t know.

We talked about several things. Life, work, family. And a few other things. Including, yes, the thing she wanted to talk about from the beginning. I told her that something like this would be better discussed in person, although I also said that it didn’t mean we couldn’t discuss it over the phone at all.

“I’ll meet you tomorrow,” I said. She agreed.

We met the following afternoon, nearing evening. As she had said yesterday, there were things she wanted to discuss, and eventually, our conversation was a bit long.

She told me something—which was quite personal, and thus I decided not to write it here—but basically, what I said was that what we feel we understand is not always the same as what others understand. Also, that essentially humans live by trying to understand each other without truly being able to do it well, but at least we try, whether that’s enough or not.

Past eight in the evening, it was finally time for us to part ways. Each of us still had work the next day, and for me, there was still a long journey afterward.

“Do you want to walk me to the bus stop?”

I agreed. We talked for a while longer until she got on her bus, only then did I go to the other side of the building to depart from a different bus stop.

/4

In a world as connected as this, differences in distance and time suddenly feel somewhat banal. At least we currently live in a time when messages flow rapidly, whether via social media or email or otherwise.

I was sorting through messages I had only just seen after connecting to the internet when someone greeted me and sent a message separated by several thousand kilometers.

This was a girl who, hyperbolically, could say she was stronger than a hundred men. Once she said she could survive nuclear fallout, which I lightly responded was probably like a cockroach. Of course, even a cockroach can only survive nuclear radiation, not if it’s hit by the bomb itself — if that were the case, forget it.

Of course, I was joking, and clearly, she wasn’t saying it literally either. Sometimes, when I think about it again, I don’t think her words were entirely untrue.

“I want to ask you something,” she said after I got a reply some time later.

As usual, our conversation wasn’t far from problems and possibilities. About what she wanted to do, the difficulties, and what should be done regarding those circumstances.

I don’t know if what I said ever was or will be helpful enough, but at least I only said what I roughly understood and what I would do for the situation she described. Then other things, some a little personal, and near the end of the conversation, she asked a simple question about my situation.

“How does it look?” I asked back.

She said what she roughly understood about my condition, but I told her I decided not to answer. It was something I didn’t want to talk about, and after a few more lines of conversation, we said goodbye.

I kept looking at the screen for some time afterward.

/5

A mailbox. An artifact, a relic, a past.

In the past, people sent news and messages by exchanging letters. In the late afternoon, for example, when everyone’s busy day ended and people headed home, before entering the door, they would usually check if the flag on the box was raised — meaning, new mail had arrived. On other days, and often it was like that, the flag remained down, and we could say there was no mail for that day.

Of course, in those days, people might worry that their mail wouldn’t arrive. Or it would get lost in transit, or damaged by rain. Anyway, I guess that was also part of the things people faced in the past, each with its shortcomings, each with its romance.

.

It’s not yet five in the morning, and for some reason, I’m not in the mood to sleep after dawn. It’s Sunday, so whatever I do, I guess it doesn’t matter. On a day like this, there’s no obligation to work, so all I do is sit in front of the keyboard and try to write again.

It’s been a while since I truly made time to write. It’s been even longer since I made time to write for myself. I sipped coffee from the mug I had prepared earlier, trying not to think about many things that have happened – or also what hasn’t happened – lately.

Click, clack, click, clack, click, clack, click, clack.

I stared at the screen while the keyboard clattered loudly. It felt like a long time since I could hear it so clearly like this.

Too late to build a dam, huh. Or maybe it broke first.

Other words passed quickly. Trying not to mind, other words clashed on the screen, sometimes quite often short-lived — written, wrong, immediately disappearing again.

Some things are better forgotten, no need to be remembered…

Other words fleetingly came and immediately disappeared again, reminding me of the English vocabulary I remember: ephemeral. Something inherently fragile, fleeting, short-lived.

Strange, I think, that memories are like a faucet. Open it just a little, and everything flows out rapidly…

.

The day has started to brighten. Dawn has passed, morning has arrived, and faintly in the background, I hear James Morrison and Nelly Furtado. Guitar chords echo each other with their voices before rising into a familiar refrain.

oh the truth hurts, and lies worse
how can I give any more,
when I love you a little less than before?

A crescendo before finally ending in silence, pulling memories from what should have been lost.

I tried to remember again. Many things happened and didn’t happen, everything that could be and had been done, and with all that, I shouldn’t want to think about what I wanted afterward.

I should, but I guess I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want anything else at all. Maybe, at least a little, but don’t we also not always hear every word, let alone have an answer for every question?

let me hold you for the last time,
it’s the last chance to feel again…

Looking at the mailbox for the last time, I closed the screen and left the notes that I still and would tidy up again. Maybe later, maybe after this.

I guess it’s going to rain today.