echo The Time with My Friends
I don’t know about you, but personally, friendship is a sacred thing. It is a promise of good times and silly laughter, of memories that one wishes to never forget, not even after death.
When I was thirteen years old, I believed that with my whole heart.
I gave my friendship to many people. (Great.)
I made the mistake of believing that giving my friendship to someone else meant that their friendship was automatically mine to claim. (Not so great.)
I was never a fast learner and I was so stubborn to see the truth, to recognise my mistake. Not even when life threw sign after sign in my direction, warning me of my actions, begging me to reconsider.
Maybe it was because I thought friendship is a sacred thing, so it could never have been their intention to hurt me.
Maybe it was because I thought friendship is a sacred thing, so they didn’t mean to leave me out, even though a small part of me whispered that they did.
Maybe it was because I thought friendship is a sacred thing, so I said nothing as they walked ahead and talked about things I knew nothing about, my feet scrambling to keep up and forcing myself to laugh when they did, just so I could look as if I knew what they were laughing about.
When I was thirteen years old, I didn’t see them for what they were.
Why? Because they were my friends. And… friendship is a sacred thing.
I was not brave enough to open my eyes to the truth that because friendship is a sacred thing, it should only be given to those who are deserving. I kept silent as they did everything they could to prove me wrong, to prove to me that they were anything but a friend to me, anything but a kindred spirit.
Deep down, I knew.
I knew that my friends shouldn’t make me feel drained after every interaction, because I had been walking on eggshells, making sure that everything I said and did was acceptable to them.
Why can’t I just be myself around them?
I knew that my friends shouldn’t make me feel worse about myself, like every time they ignored me, I had done something wrong to deserve their ignorance.
Please tell me what I did, I can fix this.
I knew that my friends shouldn’t cause me to be on the verge of tears more often than not, when they decide that I’m not good enough and leave me behind.
I know I’ll never be good enough, but is it too much to ask for you to be there for me, just as I have tried to do for you?
I knew all of this, but I still kept silent. I still stayed. I stayed because they were my friends.
And it was my biggest mistake, one that showed me the truth. I think that they were always my friends, but I don’t think I was ever theirs.
Do they know how they made me so good at the art of holding back tears?
Do they know how much I felt like a fool because of how much I trusted them only for that trust to be treated like nothing at the end of it?
Do they know how much it all hurt me?
Do they know how so many parts of me died because of our so-called friendship?
When I was thirteen years old, I started the journey of our friendship with the hopes of feeling loved and accepted, but I ended it feeling like half the person I was when I first started and with the fear that all friendships would end up the same.
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The Time My Favourite Character Died
When I was a kid, I hated change.
As far as I was concerned, change was bad. Change took away familiarity. As I grew up, I realised that change was inevitable and sometimes selfish. I couldn’t stop it. I couldn’t avoid it.
When I was a teen, I knew better.
Change was part of the process and without it, life wouldn’t be as interesting as it could be. Yes, change took away familiarity, but change catalysed growth. I didn’t want to stop it anymore. I didn’t want to avoid it.
But that day, I felt like a kid again.
M was my favourite character from that TV show I watched growing up. M was the one thing in my life that never changed, even if I had. It was a good thing, because M’s presence reminded me of the reason I kept going each day. M never gave up and always fought for what was right. I took it upon myself to embody that, (as silly as it may sound), to make M proud. M was my symbol of hope.
I had a lot of conversations with M in my head. I always thought that we’d be the best of friends, maybe in another universe. M gave me advice when I was at a loss, and when I felt stuck, like I could no longer force myself to step forward, I would ask myself the same question, always and every time.
What would M do?
When I accidentally turned the TV on that day, I saw that same TV show on the list of programmes. I thought that it’d be good to catch up with it as it’d been a long time since I had revisited it.
I wished I hadn’t.
The end credits played. I was seated on the sofa with disbelieving and tear-rimmed eyes. My body was frozen in place, my mouth open after having shouted “NO” seconds earlier, one hand clamped over it. I still had one arm half-raised, as if I had tried to save M, to do anything (as if I could have done anything from the other side of the screen). The next commercial was already playing, but I made no move to get up – how could I get up? How could I do anything?
I suddenly felt like a kid again.
I felt like the innocent kid that I had been, the one who saw M get through all the good times and even the bad ones. The same kid who grew up together with M.
M was gone for good. And somehow, I knew that a part of me was gone for good too, that it had died and was already buried.
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The Time I Lost Myself
Sudden realisations had always been my forte. You would think that was a good thing… if those realisations weren’t always too late.
I would figure out the answer to a question I had been stuck on in a test, but only after I had submitted it.
I would remember whatever forgotten item that was important, but only after I had left the house and it would be a waste of time to turn back and retrieve said item.
I would apologise for anything I did that hurt someone else, but only after I had a taste of my own medicine.
I’d just had one of those realisations, and I wondered if it might be too late, again. I had realised that I couldn’t remember the last time I’d looked at myself in the mirror. Pursing my lips, I looked at the mess in front of me. My table was cluttered with books, so many books, because another test was coming up and if I didn’t excel, what was the point in living?
I swiveled my gaze out the window, and my thoughts spiralled. I used to love taking walks during sunset, but now? I didn’t see the point anymore. It was just a waste of time, and that time could be spent on more important things like studying, right?
Studying. I was supposed to be studying, not staring out the window.
I brought my attention back to my books, but after five minutes, I was daydreaming again. I slammed my pen down with frustration. I bit my tongue, a measure of caution in case the slew of words rushing through the recesses of my mind wanted to find an escape. I repressed the urge to punch the wall.
What is wrong with you? Where is your focus? You are falling behind.
I clamped my hands over my ears, but it was no use. The voices were not from the outside, they came from within. They were relentless and somehow, they were getting louder, how were they getting louder? I let out a grunt of irritation. Then, I pushed myself away from the table, getting up to go to the bathroom.
I hoped the cold beads of water trickling down my face would help me regain the precious minutes I lost daydreaming earlier. I shut off the tap and wiped my face with a towel. I was about to return to my study area when I saw the mirror. I remembered my realisation from earlier and that made me stop in my tracks.
I focused on the mirror’s reflection and the world stopped. Another realisation came to me.
I don’t recognise the face in the mirror.
I brought my fingers up to my face. Dark eyebags framed the bottom of my eyes, just like how one would frame their proudest achievements on the walls. Speaking of eyes, there was something different about them compared to what I remembered in my mind.
I couldn’t find the light in my eyes. The spark that always made me look at the world curiously, passionately, child-like, even.
I looked paler than usual and I thought that if I turned off the lights and looked at myself in the mirror again, I would look– no, I would be a ghost. I moved my fingers between my eyebrows and tried to smoothen the indent that was there. Was the frown permanent? Paired with my sunken complexion, it reminded me of a beggar. Perhaps it was fitting, seeing that I suddenly found myself begging for a safe place, a sanctuary, even as I was standing under my own roof.
The person that I was one year ago? Gone.
The one who was happy, who looked for the best in every situation even when life threw challenge after challenge in her direction? Gone.
The one who was kind and gave grace, not only to others but also to herself? Gone.
I had another realisation then.
I have become what I feared most – not a monster capable of death and destruction – but a zombie incapable of living.
I died a little on the inside, because I once promised myself that I would remember my roots. I have done good on that promise, because I have never once forgotten my roots no matter how many achievements have been tucked under my belt.
But I have forgotten what it is like to be myself and perhaps that is a greater disgrace.
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And One Time I Didn’t
Let me tell you one fun fact about myself: I once visited a graveyard to mourn and clean the graves of the dead.
I polished the gravestones, making sure the names of those who had already left the surface of the earth shone brightly even after their bones had decayed into darkness.
I removed moss and weeds, making sure they would not taint a resting place that was supposed to feel like home after death.
I replaced flowers, bouquets of them, making sure the graves would be decorated and celebrated, just like how each of those souls had deserved to be celebrated in waking life.
Trespassing on a burial place is a crime. But that graveyard was no ordinary graveyard. It was mine.
Mine, with all the parts of myself, who had died.
Mine, with all the parts of myself, who had withered.
Mine, with all the parts of myself, most of them buried before they had a chance to flourish.
I thought that it was such a waste. All that potential, all that power. Wasted before it could even be saved.
When I finished cleaning the graves, I set my supplies down and leaned against a tree. It was the one thing in the area that wasn’t dead, besides myself.
“All that potential, all that power.”, I thought, staring at the rows of graves.
Power. And there the answer came.
Each time a part of myself died, it was because I let something else take my power away.
The time with my friends, I let them take my power away because I let them treat me the way they did, and I never found it within myself to take my power back.
The time my favourite character died, I let the villain take my power away because I let them make me believe that without M’s presence, there was no point in believing in people any longer, when in reality, all I really needed was the knowledge that M had once existed and I had had the pleasure of knowing M in my lifetime.
The time I lost myself, I let my inner demon take my power away because I let unrealistic expectations plague my life, forcing me into a state of existence instead of living, until I lost my meaning of life.
I was done with it. Done with letting my power get taken away. Done with giving my power such little value and allowing others to take it from me.
My power was mine, and I was taking it back. I am taking my power back, little by little.
It was not a day of mourning and death, not anymore. It was a day of rebirth.
I was not a broken plate with too many pieces shattered to be replaced, not anymore. I was a piece of art, something that some could not understand but some could cherish.
And if you asked me today who I am doing what I am doing for, I would tell you that I am doing this for all the versions of myself who died before they had a chance to flourish.
Written By: Wen Wei
Edited By: Zhen Li
