PROLOGUE

A mix of complex fiction and undeniable self-hatred interwoven with the many thoughts and ideas I have before I sleep.

UFOlogy

What is that in the sky? Photo by Boston University

The phone rang out, and he let it, on account of a rather private fear. A desire. 

He was the only one on the radio that night. Rehearsed night after night. A mutter. Mutter in his daily life. On the train to work, muttering, Hello, nice to meet you, where are you from? Visit. Have you heard of these things? The smell of the earth after rain? The sound of laughter from people? Whale songs and squirrel chitters? Do you like these things? Visit, down by the Milky Way, the third planet from the sun. Visit. 

He attempted to call them every day — like an obsessive ex. Every night. If he made it through tonight, maybe, just maybe, they’d hear him out. They’d believe him. It was a sin to disbelieve. 

The only one on the A.M. radio that night. 

It was a sin to disbelieve. If he made it through tonight, they’d hear him out. He’s a genius, just like them. 

Why didn’t they believe him?

A theory, no, a truth. 

See to believe. 

Pick up the phone. 

He’s a genius, just like them. Hello, nice to meet you, where are you from?

Eighty-eight 

A falling piano. Photo by the Noun Project.

Eighty-eight. 

Middle C. CDEFGABC. DFAC. 

Fingers pressed against the keys, tapping against the wood. Middle C. Minor, the 4th, the 5th. C major. D Major. He knew that he would love the melody, a string of notes, he would love his dedication, he would love his passion, he would love him. He did love him, and he did love the music. Little fireflies twirling through the air, sitting atop of clouds, swinging with the rain. 

Eighty-eight. His favorite number. He slid his fingers against the white blocks. And today was the eighty-eighth time. 

Rain dripped from the wood… and although it would damage the keys, the sounds produced only felt more melancholic. Desperate. Rain falling into despair. 

He was one to play the piano with a sort of yearning. Atop the building, he waited with eerie patience. Thunder. Rain. Water droplets and fireflies. Adrenaline. 

With a thump of the keys, he felt his fingertips almost give out under his strength. 

Playing the piano is a normal thing. 

The grand piano escalated, screaming and writhing. 

A quiet beep of his watch. A sigh. He loved the melody — that’s why he left the building. He left the building to hear, to listen to him. 

He stood up from the seat, pulling his suit down. Tight around his waist, he made sure it was buttoned. Adjust his sleeves and his tie. 

A quiet beep of his watch. 

Where are you? I hear your sound. Weren’t you getting therapy for your piano-dropping addiction?

A small smile creased his lips, and he replied, I’ve been getting worse. But I chose you to be my eighty-eighth. An honor. I love you.

This boy, this person. His eighty-eighth lover. His eighty-eighth victim. 

The pianist pushed against his instrument, the weight vanishing as it left the building’s edge. 

He deserved a surprise.

something about the waves and my tears

The ocean at night. Picture by Unsplash.

A crash. I crashed outside, feet dragging through the sand. Soft. Salt. Silence. With only the moon, the small, little hole of light in the sky for company, I drowned my sorrows away in the sea. Glittering. It was glittering tonight, or perhaps my eyes were foggy, misty. 

I swear it’s them. I swear it’s them. It can’t be anyone but them. 

I shiver, the sand exploring the creases of my thighs and my arms’ folds. In between my toes, and I struck the earth with a pleading cry — a shout. Tears dripped down my face, and the sand begged for a taste. 

Wash my face. I did not permit the sand to touch my face. To caress my cheeks, the same way he would’ve. 

He would’ve, but only if he shared a sentiment that I’ve held onto for so long. 

My fingers dig through the tiny seashells and the sand. A desperate crawl to the ocean. Stop touching my face. Stop holding me the same way he would’ve. Stop making me bleed, me cry through my eyes. Do my tears give you pleasure? Do my wet cheeks and red eyes entice you?

Tears caressed my lips. Do not kiss me the same way he would’ve. I did not choose for my beauty. Work your way to my eyes, my anger. Punish me for my madness. The way I storm through rooms like hurricanes, the way I never close my doors. Punish me for my wrongs, not my beauty. 

I pull myself into the ocean. Frosted. Cold. Quiet. 

Sea on my face, pull away the sand. Save me. Relish my beauty, my aches, my sores, the same way he would’ve. 

Only if he liked me back. 

Ocean in my mouth.

And only then did I realize that the ocean and my tears tasted the same.

And only then did I realize that the ocean and my tears shared the same sorrow, the same melancholy.

be mean to me. 

A rain puddle. Photo by Unsplash

I’m sorry for not picking up the phone. I think he said that. I don’t know. I can’t focus anymore. 

“I can’t think straight right now.” His words were slurred. A gentle intonation. “Thank you for walking me home, though. In the rain.”

I blink away the rain. I begin to walk down his street. He holds my arm to steady himself, pulling his hoodie over his head. “I thought we were over.” 

“It’s dark, though. And that party was terrifying.”

His words can rupture me. His words press against my throat, gripping me with a sort of desperation, a sort of melancholy. He can convince me of the strangest of things. To hang out with him on Thursday nights even though we could never wake up the next day. To drive down boulevards without caring for who would see us. To trace the outline of my lips with his. 

“Do you feel safe with me?” I swallow my breath. 

“Always.” That word. Always. And forever. If only. 

“I thought you stopped drinking.”

“You think a lot.”

“I wonder why.” 

Silence. I hear his breaths come slow and quiet through the phone. The breaths that I’d tangle myself in. The voice that would steal the attention of the sky, the moon, the sun herself. And they, too, would shine brighter. Would burn brighter. In hopes that he’d see them. 

“Why did we break up?” he asks me. 

That was an easy question. “It wasn’t you.” 

His voice was clearer. He was sobering up. He stops walking. “Be mean to me. Why did we break up?”

That’s a harder question. “It was me. We talked about it.”

“Mhm, yeah, okay, sure. The next day, our apartment was stripped of your belongings. Why did we break up?” His voice, I heard it crack. I heard his voice fall from the knots and tangles. I say nothing, so he continues. “I asked our friends, and they told me that you completely ghosted them. Even your parents said-”

“You talked to my parents?” I spin to look at him, faster than I would have just to admire him. 

His face shifts. He knows. “Was it because of your parents?”

“I want you.” 

A tear glides down his cheek. I’d recognize his sorrow through the clouds’ melancholy. “Please. Say my name.” I swallow. I say his name, but it only makes him cry harder. “Why did we break up?”

I swallow. I blink away the tears. “I wish you were a girl.”

a little something called hatred

Ugly, dirty shoes. Photo by Ririsoony

I can’t believe you live here with me. I can’t believe I managed to live on the same Earth, the same planet, the same city as you. I hate you. 

I hate the stars in your eyes and the giggles on your lips. I hate your stringy black hair and how it never stays, and how you always touch it absentmindedly. I hate how you wear the same dirty and worn Vans every day, with one of the laces shaped like a star. Are you obsessed? It’s so ugly, I hate you. I hate how they’re so dirty and you don’t care to clean them. I hate how you laugh at everything and everyone, I hate how you smile at everything and everyone. I hate how you handle crickets and spiders and ladybugs on the tips of your gentle fingers. 

I hate you. How can you live without hate?

But you fell in love with life. You fell in love with the skies on rainy days and the strength of my hatred. You love me. You loved me.  I can’t believe you. I can’t believe your guts.  I waited for you to make a mistake. To mess up your perfect reputation, your perfect image. I never realized that all you wanted, all you needed, was to love freely, to love everyone and everything. To fall in love with the world, with the fissures in the concrete, with the graffiti on the walls. To love despite my hatred. And that would never be a mistake.

EPILOGUE

Does humanity deserve a quiet epilogue?

I don’t think so.