By Nguyen Ngoc Uyen Nhi

Content Warning: Suicide, Domestic Abuse

You are standing next to me; a comforting presence. Your hair is in a messy bun—barely kept together, black strands spilling out as if a river—but you pay it no mind. The school is empty, save for the two of us standing in the schoolyard, our uniforms soaked with warm sun, the sky a deep blue. You bend down, picking fresh plumerias that have just fallen from the stems—a white orb of flame blooming inside your splayed palm. 

You smile—bright, brighter than the summer sun—as you carefully tuck a fragrant flower into my hair, fingers brushing against the shell of my ear, drawing a trail of embers. It is as if time has stopped for us, an ephemeral moment condensing into something much, much more. An indelible mark whittled onto my heart, seeping into my bones. 

The flowers—in my hair, in your hand—are white, and whole. Full like the autumn moon. 

“I like them,” you murmur to me—as if a secret—giggling. 

I’ve always thought of love as something benign—the way lovers gaze at each other, the way they walk side by side, fingers intertwining as if never letting go. No one has told me that love can be this destructive, that in your absence, it wails loudly and destroys everything in its wake, its way. I’ve never seen love like this—a petulant child, stomping and whining every waking hour.

No one has ever told me that love itself could also be an act of destruction. I didn’t know. I never knew.

You were a natural rebel, born to defy every expectation and rule imposed on you: wearing a pink pair of Crocs to school (knowing full well that the teachers would never allow that), grinning triumphantly as our homeroom teacher complained furiously about your unkempt hair; totally unfazed. Even the strict and imposing discipline master sighed in total defeat when faced with you grinning, standing in front of his office. For those months, it seemed as if nothing could beat, tear, or even dare to hurt you. 

When we first met, I didn’t want to befriend you—too loud, too bright. You reminded me of the scorching summer sun. I dubbed your rebellious attitude as immaturity—quite disdainfully, may I note. Yet, as you occupied that seat next to me, drops of sun contained inside your irises; as you peeled away those tough layers around your heart—revealing the intimate parts of your soul—I changed my mind. I thought, as you stood under that vast expanse of azure sky, under canopies brimming with white buds that were ready to blossom, my image reflected inside your gaze, that perhaps it was not so bad being friends with the sun. 

The sky is bleak when I wake up.

Today, the world seems colder than usual—the harsh wind banging itself against my window, its cries deafening, the clouds dyed an ashen gray. I close my eyes, nuzzling myself back into the blanket—seeking a refuge from the bitterness outside; a barrier between reality and I. 

I don’t want to wake up. I don’t wish to move my body. 

Perhaps I should pray for my eyes to never open, to never wake up from the lingering reverie, to never see the sickening sight of the world again. The sky is bleak, bleak, bleak—deprived of all its vitality, its presence a punch to my stomach, tearing a hole through soft flesh. My ribcage convulses in pain as sobs are dug out of my throat—a muffled sound, as soft as the flapping of a feather. 

I wonder why you never took me with you, I mouth into the soft blanket, breathless, trembling as your fingers seemingly ghost across my ears, emanating a deceptive warmth that only stretches the wound even wider—a crimson ravine running across my skin. Across my chest.  

Across my heart.

After one year of us being friends, you started dating. 

There’s this guy, you said, your mouth full of tapioca pearls, that’s really cute, y’know? It was late afternoon, and the sun no longer burned. It was gentle, yellow like rice fields ripe and ready for harvest, our skin radiant under its shine. You fished your phone out of your pocket, showing me a picture of you two together. 

You’re showing all your teeth, I pointed the detail out, laughing as you feigned anger at me, He’s gonna ditch you for another girl!

You stood up, your pose full of confidence; sun rays dyed your hair golden. Then, with pearls still in your mouth, you exclaimed proudly—He’s gonna lose the best girl he has ever met! Your gaze turned, meeting mine. At that moment, I could feel my heart going soft, warmth rippling from where my heart was beating calmly. You were looking at me, with all the tenderness in the world, whispering—Besides, I am happy as long as I have my best friend here with me. 

And even though nothing was permanent, I foolishly hoped that those naive days of living in bliss would last for a bit longer.

Until one day, when you came to class with bruises. 

The marks were almost unnoticeable at first glance; purple spangles specked your thighs, streaking your ankles. 

I pressed a cup of ice onto the marks during recess; the two of us huddled in a corner where students and teachers barely passed. Some were a scary, bright hue of magenta, others merely a faint shade of blush.

I asked you about those. You lowered your head—how strange, a proud person like you averting my gaze, your bangs obfuscating your bright eyes. From my point of view, you were shrinking into a feral child, reserved and afraid. You shrieked away—almost imperceptibly—as my hand reached out to brush your messy strands of hair aside, as if I was about to hurt you.

Then, after an indeterminate amount of time, you murmured, words slurring, The old man did it. He can be quite childish and sullen sometimes.

A laugh erupted from your throat, hoarse, as if you had spent the whole night crying. Before I could even react, your laughter had already trailed into a heavy silence, bordering on trembling sobs. The year was coming to an end, and petals upon petals were falling away from branches, and then brutally stomped under heels—dark marks marring the white canvas.

I chose not to reply, and none of us said anything to each other on our way back to class, either. 

I lie in the heaps that are my room: cluttered objects forming a wall around my body, everything almost pitch-black except for the faint string of fairy lights, the curtains decisively shut; a broom already forlornly tossed aside. As I sprawl my tired body across the mess, my fingers unconsciously grab onto something.

I tug. 

And there are the uniforms from those old days—the whiteness of the blouse already giving way for a faint yellow to seep in, but the name tag and the class are still intact. Numbers and words stare back at me coldly, as if mocking my wounds, as if reminding me—

—of you. 

I bury my face into the soft fabric: it reeks of the erosion of time, but at the same time, an almost imperceptible scent of plumerias lingers. And then it hits me again, how this is the last of you: intangible shreds of memories, that could never hope to substitute your touch, your brazen voice, your bold smile. The summer sun clinging onto your skin. I inhale—trembling—before collapsing again into another bout of pain, your figure fading in and out of my sight. Then, as I call your name weakly, you dissipate into a puff of nothingness. 

This is the last of you. 

The summer of the third year of us being friends, you bought an ao dai with your own savings. You changed into it after school and asked me if I could take lots of photos for you, placing the black camera into my palms with a grin. 

In the wind, the white panels flowed and fluttered—as if a butterfly taking flight. The translucent fabric hugged your skin, glimmering as the sunlight passed through it; you were as if a nymph stepping out of a fairytale. You had braces on, but you laughed with all your heart and smiled as big as you could, caring about nothing but the present. 

I felt like a butterfly—you rested your head on my shoulder, eyes closed. Shuttered. I wish I could be one. Somewhere, a butterfly took off from the flower buds, floating towards the sun until it was nothing, but a dot of color. 

You gripped my hands as I sorted through the photos—a bit too tight, almost enough to inflict pain on me. As if I was your anchor. Then, you sobbed, fat tears rolling down your cheeks, dampening my shirt. I simply carded your hair, tapping my fingers on your shoulder. A slow and steady rhythm. 

I love you. I love you so much, you managed to choke out—after a fleeting exhalation of breath, or half an hour—I didn’t keep track. The plumeria flowers were wilting away on the schoolyard, until they became brown and mushy to the touch. 

I should have known something was coming. That even though you were seemingly impervious to woes, in the end, you were no stronger than a butterfly, whose wings were so delicate one could rip through it with the smallest force. 

Tonight I dreamt you held my hands, gently, as if I was ready to break at any moment. I trembled, wrapped in your icy touch. You stroked my tear-stained cheeks—still with the utmost care and earnest warmth. 

That is all it takes for me to crumble. 

I can’t, I sob, I can’t do this anymore. Not without, not without you—

Suddenly, you move closer: a pair of soft lips brushing my cheeks, all the words brimming on the tip of my tongue dissipating into nothingness. Around us, plumerias cover the ground, until everything is an infinite stretch of snow. It is as if both of us have returned to that schoolyard, to those summers where plumerias bloomed so bright they almost obscured the sky from view. And even though your hand is frighteningly cold, my body bursts with vitality under it. It is as if you have salvaged a dying heart, buried under layers and layers of frost, and brought it back to life.

With love. 

Then, you tuck a bud into my hair—old memories whirling back into my mind like a storm. You speak, and the words fall off your mouth slowly, quietly, yet with utter clarity:

I’m always here with you, okay? you chuckle, endearing. Such a big baby. When will you start taking care of yourself?

The sky is still bleak when I wake up.

Outside, ashen clouds billow through like waves, the sun seemingly gone, the world devoid of its shine. 

But on the window sill lies a bud of plumeria, its petals slowly opening up, radiant amidst the desolate sight outside. 

I touch my cheek.

Warmth streams into my skin.

As if someone has pressed a kiss there. 

–

Nhi is a professional daydreamer from Vietnam. She spends her free time crocheting until her wrists hurt and thinking about the copious amount of books she could have bought. She loves indulging in poetry, fiction, classical music, watercolor, and gouache paintings.