Him.

Archive #6 | copyright to saturnfairycat

Author's Note: Damn, who hurt her- anyway, I found this in my embarrassing amount of 'Untitled Documents' in my google drive. You know when you are cleaning your room and you come across letters/diaries of when you were going through it? Yeah... but why was this so interesting to read HAHA (I don't even remember when I wrote it). Enjoy!

Him.

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He would’ve read my work.

Not voluntarily, I would have had to definitely convince him. Though, it didn’t take much teasing— he always complied in the end. So much for his complaints that I “wrote too much” or my work was “too complicated”, he ended up taking extra time and care reading everything I sent through.

Did he always understand what I wrote? Ha. Absolutely not.

But he read it anyway, he always did.

I ponder about it, sometimes. I glance down to— nothing, really— and just relive all the little things and memories we shared. It’s definitely bittersweet, but I am not a picky eater; the taste of bitterness accompanied by the honey-suckle kiss on the tongue has soon become a fan favourite. It’s like a logical but irrational balance: good as a thesis, terrible for the heart. All those bitterness-cringing-moments won’t hide the fear of high blood sugar.

Would he ever miss my writing?

Really does your head in, doesn’t it? All those rudely blunt questions your mind comes up with when the world goes quiet.

Does he even remember half of what he read from me?

To be fair, I don’t even remember what I sent him— I just remember I used to do it all the time.

Will he ever get to know that I have found a passion to write again?

Poems were my favourite way to convey storytelling. Commitment was miminial, because they are so short (surprise, surprise— my signature 14 paged spiel does take a lot of effort and energy which is not favourable), and I loved my little rabbit-holes of just finding the synonym for every. single. word. Anything that required excessive and proper sentences drained me, it didn’t feel right. But now— I have come to embrace it and oh, enjoy it oh-so-much.

Funny thing, though— I never felt like my essays were the best. I’m sure the actual concepts and ideas I write within an essay structure have merit, but I never felt like my structural integrity of a normal essay spoke out to me. I also always felt like what I wrote for an essay could have been better— it just felt cheesy. To be fair— I never really got to the point of sitting down and reading poetry, the pieces I picked up were always too cheesy (even for me). But oh, how I loved writing it.

Don’t get me wrong, I love writing essays. But–

Will he ever know that I found my own sense of writing style?

My sense of writing is emotive language. I love symbolism, the play on words— I like the puzzling effect, the double take on things. I love to draw people in, make them confused and heart-broken. I want the real message hidden in deciphering, having to go back and reread it just so you can catch the missed hints and easter eggs. I love deep and dark themes— horror has always been my favourite genre, after all.

And because I love the deep, emotive conception of writing— I want to always incorporate it into my essays. But of course, I don’t have the time to properly plan out which critical sentence to repeat later down the line— what metaphors and personifications really mean. But you’ll be damned to not see me try.

Would he be damned?

It doesn’t matter anymore, even if the current isn’t the direction I want to swim against.

Some people might read this and wonder: “Wait, is this about me?”

But the right person will read this and their heart will stop for a beat, because they know it’s about them. Well, if they can remember— of course. Can’t forget the fact his memory of us is so terrible, I would have better luck asking a goldfish to memorise the two times table.

I did consider a lot of people when thinking about this umbrella of thoughts. Often, I would have left it to mystery and let my readers conclude what they thought I meant (though, I still can’t help but cringe when they butcher the meaning), but in this reality, I have been pondering about the thought of loneliness.

I’m not alone.

I’m far from it.

But I guess it's the closeness and intimacy that I crave. I have the people, I have the bonds— but I figure that being an arms length away from most of my friends for so long due to my personal business, I hesitate to be needy. It’s selfish of me to do so, it’s like the poem situation— I can’t just commit to something because it’s the bare minimum.

Would he miss my face? I wear a mask consistently, sometimes I do believe that some of my classmates don’t remember what I look like.

And most of all, do I mean mask symbolically, or physically?

Would he remember my face? It makes me want to take off my mask more, but it has become a comfort— plus, I get sick so easily.

Every time I got really ill, he was who I talked to.

He made sickness bearable. He cared and made me laugh.

What a joke.

Closure was never the answer, like a mouse that follows a snake— tailing behind the sharp-fanged beast screaming out the question for it to hear.

Why?

Why not? Why else? For I will never know.

Because it is not worth knowing.

Why would a mouse go back to the very place, the snake’s lair, where they were bitten once already— to ask why they bit the mouse in the first place?

Does he remember the puncture wounds?

Would he read my writing if it was about a snake and mouse?

Would he understand it?

…

Sigh

…

A fresh wound appears.

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Him.

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