It is common knowledge that the distance between two polar points draws a line. And all lines construct shapes—and all shapes grow with volume and dimension into any solid, physical object that can be recognized by our senses. Therefore, if shapes constitute the world, then everything fundamentally begins in those two mere points. Adam and Eve by the tip of a pen.
Like that day on the rooftop, Daire's stance is still grave, a depressed delinquent sitting on a waiting bench outside the hospital rooms, head deep into the shadow of his thoughts. His hand is still clenched on his tensed knee—but this time, the other is gripping the IV stand beside him so tight I can see the veins vining up in his arm.
I realize I've been standing in the middle of the hallway long enough to cause a delay in the hospital's fast-paced system, in the unpredictable flow of the patients' lives. But I have to carefully weigh the consequences of my options. This may not be a big deal to most people, but to me, it's a dilemma, a fight, or flight situation. If I walk forward and talk to him, I'd have to compose words to say, which is dread enough, along with a half-hearted gesture of comfort that is ultimately out of my character. But if I'd walk away, draw another line and carry on, the mystery will haunt me in my sleep. I'm caught between two catastrophes.
Between us is a line inviting enough to be a boundary and cryptic enough to be a cliff. But it seems he's the one who will choose for me. He lifts up his head, turns—sees me, and stays still. All the colors wash down from his face, as though he was caught bare in front of me. And I wonder if I'm wearing the same expression.
Helpless, I approach him, and he reluctantly greets me, "hey."
"What happened?" The question comes out stronger than I intend it to be.
"Kidney stones," he says. "and they have to take out my appendix too."
I look down at his clenched hand. Something is protruding from his arm, which is wrapped around an armband. He hides it behind his back. "I believe your friends don't know you're here. Raven is worried sick about you."
"Yeah…" He says distractedly. "And I'll appreciate it if you don't tell them."
I narrow my eyes and tip my head to the side. "Why?"
He looks away. "Because it's nothing serious…really, it's nothing."
He gives me the smile he wears all the time. It's the smile he shows to everyone. The kind that seems to be effortless, a vital part of his nature. An open invitation. A glowing welcome sign. It's one of the reasons why he's adored by many. And without that smile, Daire's being won't be complete. But I know that smile too well. It's being shown to me all my life.
"Your smile…it's fake."
He stares at me vacantly. There's a shade of surrender to it. As if he wants to tell me, "you saw me here, might as well show you everything." The ever-glowing light has diminished from his eyes. I feel an uncomfortable chill, as though something that kept him together has drifted away. And before me, he's an empty shell split apart. Then, he parts his lips a little. I thought he's going to say something, but he doesn't. Instead, he shows me that smile again, perhaps to provoke me, to get under my skin, an act of retaliation. I grit my teeth.
"People are right about you, June. You really are ruthless, sometimes."
"I'd rather be ruthless than be a fraud like you." The words come out too sharply. I'm ruthless, alright.
My calculation is wrong. All lines shouldn't be crossed.
I tell him to get well soon, and I won't tell anyone because I don't really care. But as soon as I turn to walk away, he holds my wrist, and his hand, in spite of everything, is warm. "Wait."
"What is it this time?"
"I just want to say, thank you…for giving me half of your lunch, back on the rooftop. I haven't eaten anything that day…so, thank you."
I slowly face him. His eyes are absolute. He's not smiling anymore. "And this time, I mean it," he says.
...
As I walk home, exhaustion begins to crawl my limbs, while the twined handles of the stuffed paper bags chafe my palms and tug my arms sore. The afternoon is still young, but it feels like I haven't slept for three days. The sweltering heat is slowly burning me. Every step is getting heavier, and the weight of the interactions I've had from the hospital makes everything worst.
My severe introversion has cost me my immunity to social interactions. Conversations easily overwhelm me, and those long, serious ones are especially lethal. They extinguish my energy like it's nothing but a match fire, purged between two thumbs.
Usually, at times like this, I'll crave for complete solitude and something sweet. But the apartment door reveals Raven's friends. All three of them are huddled together on the couch, their faces stuck on their phones.
Oh, June, you're back!" Kyle says as if we're close friends. "Raven, your roommate's here!"
Since Raven doesn't talk to me at school, I figure I should ignore them as well. Raven comes wearing her work uniform. She works part-time in a convenience store every weekend. "You came at the right time," she says. There's a wall between us now. Her voice cold and aloof. "My friends are staying here for a while. I hope you don't mind."
"No, it's fine. I'm going to sleep early anyway."
Raven introduced me to her friends as her roommate and a distant relative. When they're around, Raven acts like we're almost as good as strangers. But I don't really mind. I don't. Besides, Raven pays the rent, cleans, and makes great food for me. The least I can do is ignore them, and it's not really hard to do anyway. I find her friends too unconventional for my taste.
"I'd like to talk to you in the kitchen," she says, and I follow her.
When we're out of earshot, she immediately asks, "What did the doctor say?"
"Melatonin deficiency," I answer. "He said my lack of sleep has caused chemical imbalances in my brain that triggered hallucination, but instead of some made-up scenario, it utilized the memories I lost from the head trauma I got when we were kids. My cortisol levels were also in haywire yesterday, and the coffee I drank in school made it worse."
"And your memories? Will you regain your memories?"
I shake my head. "Lost memories are completely subconscious, so they won't resurface no matter how much I force myself," I explain. "Dr. Sy said it's just a minor amnesia glitch, but it rarely happens. Also, hallucinations from sleep deprivation are quite common, although mine is just a little bit different, given my circumstances. But he said there's nothing to worry about. He gave me some melatonin pills and told me to get a lot of sleep."
"I didn't really get everything you said, but I'm glad it's not serious or anything."
She tells me to eat the food she made for me and goes to her annoying friends. I hear chirpy goodbyes, the door closing, and she's gone.
Raven has difficulty discerning lies from truth, and I take it to my advantage, sometimes.
...
Everything from my bed, bedside table, desk, and chair to my closet is pre-loved. I got them from various surplus and vintage stores, my personal wonderland. I don't know when exactly I have developed an affection for secondhand objects, but the feeling has been with me for a long time. I yearn for things that already have a story, a history, something that makes them more valuable than anything else. Overall, my room is a cramped, Tudor-woodsy space, hooked from the 1920s. It may be a lot smaller than my old one, but proximity produces warmth.
I place the turntable on my desk and pull a vinyl out of the paper bag. I turn off the lights, close all the windows and jump into my bed, just as Chopin's Nocturne in C sharp minor fills the room.
My father and I may not share the same genes, but we share the same taste in music. It used to be one of the few things we had in common: our fondness for sad melodies. The deep shrills of the violin, the penetrating vibrato, the lachrymose ambiance it emanates; they echo something I cannot let out, a weight trembling underneath the emptiness. This is one of my father's favorites, but we never got to play it during his funeral, nor I had the chance to mourn his death. But this music will cry for me.
The day I first met my parents had been in a playroom somewhere—it's already gray in my memory. But I remember I was working on a big puzzle that shows a picture of a family caricature with a little girl in the middle holding her mom and dad's triangular hands, and a caption, "HAPPY FAMILY" in big bubbly letters at the bottom. By the time I completed the puzzle, I felt people watching closely behind me. My future parents. The woman who will shortly become my mother immediately asked me a lot of questions, making sure she knew what she was going to get, but while I was enumerating the planets of the solar system for her, I was staring at the man with an unforgettable smile.
I spend a while ruminating, thinking about my father, the money that he willed for me, my estranged mother, my lost memories until I find myself remembering the conversation I had with him in the hospital. No one has called me ruthless before, at least not in front of my face. That's why I got quite worked up about it. But maybe, Daire has never been called fake either, since everyone else fails to notice. Daire strikes me as someone who would rather smile than express his real feelings. He rarely shows extreme emotions, either. He's always calm, easygoing, insouciant. As though he has all the time in the world. But too much passivity creates pressure underneath. Like how temperature is more likely to rise beneath covered surfaces until it doesn't have a choice but to explode.
It might be because everyone looks up to him; that's why he cannot let himself be vulnerable. After saving the freshman girl from falling off from the building, Daire has become everyone's hero. I forget what—or more importantly, why we were talking that day; we were never close. But I'll always remember how his untroubled face shifted into a strong expression—then, in a flash, the girl is already in his arms. Ever since that day, people have come to surround him. Girls would write him love letters, take secret photos, give him gifts and chocolates. Guys would call and ask him for high-fives, invite him to parties, subconsciously wanting to be like him—and I wonder if all this attention has taken a toll on him. That maybe, playing hero means falling apart without someone saving you.
I wonder if Raven and the rest of his friends notice the cracks behind that lovely façade. But people my age tend to see the worth of a person than the person itself. Relationships in high school are just as cheap and shallow as gossips, back fights, first-kisses, stupid parties, beers, cigarettes, and pre-marital coitus. For them, bonds and connections are just one-dimensional lines they can tamper with and erase if they want to. His circle is surely no different.
Loud knocks bang on my door, and I roll and fall out of my bed.
"JUNE! JUNE! COME OUT!" That's Kyle's voice. I forgot Raven's annoying friends are still here.
Vexed and confused, I open the door and see Kyle's frantic face. "Alec won't wake up! I tried shaking him and everything, but he just won't! You gotta help me, June!"
Alec is face down on the couch. I look back at Kyle's face again, making sure he's not giving me some prank like he'd usually do, but his face is still hard; his pupils are not dilating. Looks like he's telling the truth.
I briskly made my way to the couch and motion Kyle to come closer. Together, we turn Alec so that he's lying on his back. "Call someone!" I tell Kyle.
I hold his wrist to feel his pulse, which seems normal. So, I move over to his chest and place my ear to hear his heartbeat just to make sure there's nothing's wrong with his heart rate. I look at Alec's face and see no hints of stressful breathing. But before resorting to CPR, I'm going to check if his pupils are responding first. I take my phone from my pocket and turn on the flashlight. I lean my face towards his, but he jerks slightly, which makes our noses brush each other—then his eyes spring open, and I land down the floor.
Kyle burst into laughter. "I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU FELL FOR THAT!"
I can't believe it too. I try to murder Kyle with my look, but Alec rises up from the couch. "What the hell?! Do you want me to kill you?!" And saunters to Kyle just in time Callista comes in.
"Man, you really sleep like crazy! You didn't even budge when we freaking turned you over!"
"YOU DAMNED SON OF A—" Alec runs to murder Kyle, but Callista comes in between them. "Move out of the way, Cal!"
"Seriously, I just went outside for a smoke, and you idiots are already slapping your hairy swords like some horny Excaliburs."
"That's gross, Callista." Kyle says.
"Just apologize to June, you hairy bastard!" She says.
I get up and compose myself. I may not be talking to them, but I know them enough to fall to the conclusion that they are not my cup of tea. Kyle is a premature prankster who has the worst case of Attention Deprivation. And just a few seconds ago, I learn that he can also be deceitfully unpredictable. He's my least favorite of all. Callista is a bodacious, voluptuous lesbian who smokes, wears super short miniskirts, and seems to blurt out explicit sarcasm naturally like it's oxygen. And lastly, Alec, my seatmate and my classmate for six years, is a temperamental narcoleptic with aggressive tendencies.
"But I just want June to get to talk to me!" Kyle whines. "I've been very lonely because you guys always ignore me, and Daire has been MIA for literally years now." He turns to me. "You understand me, don't you, June?"
I take a deep breath. "Your IQ is one minus one raised to the negative power of ten."
He looks at me as if I'm speaking a different language. "What?"
"She says you're a total idiot." Alec answers.
I walk away and slam the door shut. Chopin still serenades my room. I collapse in my bed and close my eyes.
...
When I wake up, the world is still dark. I check my phone for the time, and it's only nine pm. My body clock is a mess, and I'm not going to fall asleep anymore. Might as well rise and shine.
The music has stopped playing, so I get up and look for another vinyl to listen to. But I remember something much more important, and I'm suddenly overwhelmed by a bad feeling. I spill the contents of the paper bags and check all of them one by one, but I don't see our family picture. I must have left it on my father's table back in the hospital.
I pull out a jacket and step outside. Everyone is gone, and I hear Raven's nightly snores from her room. I come out of the apartment. The moon is in its full glow, and I glance up from time to time as I walk past a few streets until I reach the highway. I ride on a bus.
When I arrive at the hospital, all the visitors are almost gone. I am supposed to ride an elevator to the fifth floor, walk a few hallways to the Neurology Department, but my legs take me somewhere else. Beside the bench where I last see him is a patient's room that has his full name tacked on the door. I knock, but no one answers.
"Are you looking for Mr. Daire Cruz?"
I gasp and turn to the nurse behind me. I nod.
"He just got out of his IV, so he went out for a walk. Try to look for him at the lobby."
Another bad feeling washes over me. Instead of walking back to the lobby, I get on the elevator to the seventh floor. I briskly walk past a few corridors and sprint up the staircase that leads to the rooftop.
And there I see him. Beneath the full moon, Daire's arms are spread apart. I can only see his back, but I know from the way he stands, from the way he leans on the ledge, and how he slowly raises his leg, I know he's going to jump.