Things Left Unsaid
Jia Yi Wong, Malaysia

You told me, all those years ago, that you’d never let me leave. I remember it clearly - your voice was hoarse, dry as cracking ice. I was packing my bags and you were screaming at me from the front doorway. You were wearing this washed out old T-Shirt, and when you slammed into my room the most heavy floral perfume flushed through with you.

You clawed and shrieked and wrenched the clothes from my fists. You pulled my hair into your hand like a seamstress collecting thread, then you cracked my head on the hard edge of your knuckles. Funnily enough, you have more scars from that than I do.

Afterwards, we sat out on the porch and I wiped the grit off your hands. When you leaned forward with your cigarette, hanging loosely off your mouth, I reached for my lighter. 

“Sorry,” you rasped. “You know I only want the best for you.”

I never did leave. I tried, of course, the same way a child running away from home decides that that means sitting outside on the curb. Packing suitcases full of stuffies, crayons: I found jobs in faraway cities, girlfriends across the border, all sorts of reasons to leave you behind. But time and time again, the skies would part into clutters of pinks and blues, and I’d find myself missing the flight.

When the sickness started growing inside of you, I thought it was karma taking its price. The problem with that idea is that I hadn’t left yet - and so I became your collateral. For every afternoon I spent making you tea, steeping it for exactly 10 minutes and no more, helping you sip it by the teaspoon, part of you drained out into the hot water. 

I visited every day. Soon enough, you didn’t even know that. Once, you asked me, “Why did you leave me here so long?”. Childishly I believed maybe time stretched because it was emptier without me. A bit later on, the realisation came to me that it was your grasp on time slipping through, not vulnerability.

In between cutting you slices of apples shaped like little bunnies, we talked. The nurses let me play some old tunes on a Bluetooth speaker - sappy love songs and acoustic, deep, melodies. The scratchiness of your voice complimented each song perfectly.

 “Hey, do you remember when I tried running away as a kid?”

You laughed. It was a horrible, broken sort of noise. The limp tilt of your head away from me answered nothing.

By September, we stopped talking. There was no point to it. You were too confused and I was too bitter. For every conversation I tried to start, more and more of the picture crumbled away. For each and every plea I left unsaid, more and more of you washed away to the seas.

You’re still here, I think. Something with your shape and your eyes and your hands, at least, but you carted off all your secrets a long time ago. Every “why?” and “how?” was stamped and sent to the post office. You sealed them shut with hot glue and they’ve been shipped off far, far, away. 

Once I tried to ask you what you wanted me to write on your gravestone, but you were too tired to answer. Eventually I got too tired too, so I laid myself down to rest with my head on your lap, arms folded beneath. It was the most uncomfortable way to sleep.

I’ve decided now, without your input, that I’ll be keeping the inscription simple. Sentimentalism was never our style, and neither was honesty. I’ll leave it below for you to check, but whatever you think won’t make a difference. I know you better than you know yourself, for better or worse, so this is my call to make.

Jia Yi is a student from Malaysia who has been completely entwined with literature since she was a kid. Having recently taken to tutoring others in English Lit and Language, she adores taking the written word apart, and loves even more finding the concepts buried underneath.