Nostalgia's Hope

Rosy cumulus dangles upon the post-dawn gleam while streams of light slowly flooding, slipping in between brokenness. Curves of calmness glisten and blink. Shadows sway and venture the opposite. I close my eyes and hear your soft clear voice when I open them again.

"I won't miss this place," you say. I tilt my head in your direction. You are staring deep into the horizon, seeking something that can only exist when one is not directly looking into it. I know that look for I can see it when you look at me and I see myself being reflected in your light brown eyes. "I'll probably miss the view but not the place. I'll probably miss the feeling but not the place."

"You don't really like it here, do you?" I ask. I cannot remember how many times we have this kind of talk. Your answer always leaves a bitter taste in my mouth as if I am the one saying your answer out loud.

"I don't. This place is a cage for my potential."

I look away from you and stare at the horizon instead. We have this routine of jogging through the stairs early in the morning and upon reaching the top, when we're standing on the supposedly sacred mountain top where nature's voice takes over and where we're supposedly feel at ease, we gaze at the sunrise until the sky becomes painful to look at.

"Yeah. That's reasonable," I utter almost to myself. "On my part, I'm comfortable inheriting the family business and stay here for the rest of my life."

"Tell me. Have you ever found something you really want that you feel like not taking or pursuing it is worse than being dead?" I hear a distinct note of challenge in your voice. You seem to be using the same tone every time we debate about social issues and when I look back at you, you are looking at me, the same way you gazed at the horizon earlier. They say, the eyes are the gateway to feelings but then again, we can only make assumptions and more often than not, we prefer to stay wondering if the assumptions we have are true or otherwise. Because more often than not, we fear to know the truth. I look away and shrug my head.

"No. There's nothing I want that strongly."

You protrude a chuckle with the meaning gone with the orange rays of the sun. "Figures," you utter softly.

"You, on the other hand, have found it. That's why you're leaving this place."

"You're not even asking. You're stating as if there's no room for me to disagree with you."

"Is there even a room for you to disagree with me?"

You suddenly shout in frustration and I laugh in the process. Still, there's emptiness hanging on the pit of my stomach that a warm laugh cannot eradicate. "I hate this game," you whisper after letting go of the frustration. I can feel your eyes on me and I do not dare to look at you way. I cannot. After a long silence that's always been comfortable between us, you sigh once more and finally say, "Yes. There's no room for me to disagree with you."

As if on cue, as if somewhere in the universe, a thread snaps and lets go, I protrude a sigh of relief. A bird flies in my line of sight from the north and disappears into the eastern horizon.

There's nothing I want that strongly. Somewhere in the depths of my mind, I don't believe those words and somewhere in yours, you do.

The sky becomes painful to look at so I close my eyes and when I open them again, I only find myself, still trapped in this routine of jogging through the stairs and gazing at the sunrise after all these years like a planet bound by gravity, bound forever in its orbit because for someone who always try to choose a reasonable reason above everything else, no matter how potentially regret will weigh down the shoulders as an aftermath, I will still choose to be the planet so that you will not be the one to be bound by gravity instead.

"You're not really looking at me, do you?" a voice, followed by a light tap on my shoulder, snaps me out of my reverie. I blink and perceive a pair of intent grey eyes, evidently dark with the waning rays of the sun. Pain and resignation paint her irises. But there's something else. Hope. Hope is the ephemeral fireflies dancing in her soul. "You're always seeking for something else. You're always looking at the sky, somewhere," she whispers and with my lack of response, the fireflies faded into the darkness and tears appear in their stead. "I cannot do this anymore."

When her footsteps faded, the crickets' song reverberated into the twilight. Emptiness knows where I live, it seems, and my hopeless attempt of giving the address of others in order for it to leave my premises is the lamest thing I have ever done since you left. It is not even reasonable. Heck, I do not have the language to understand if something is reasonable or not anymore. I cannot see when my eyes are open and I only see light brown eyes and sunrises when I close them.

The night deepens while time stands still in my head and chest. I find myself standing on the bridge while the lake whispers softly and clearly below. This place too is full of your shadows trembling with silvery light. I hear your voice from a distance.

"I won't miss this place," you whisper and the wind softly caress my cheek, remembering how your touch feels like and the box where I seal the words you said when we're standing on the top of the stairs before you left, breaks into pieces. My heart is breaking still.

The wind picks up and I shiver. Again, your voice whispers, "This place is a cage for my potential."

I close my eyes as I let my mind avalanche into the past.

"Tell me. Have you ever found something you really want that you feel like not taking or pursuing it is worse than being dead?"

A chuckle. I hear myself saying, "You, on the other hand, have found it. That's why you're leaving this place."

"Yes. There's no room for me to disagree with you. But, I'm giving you a room to disagree with me."

This time, I understand the look in your eyes when I look back at you. Hope. Unlike her kind of hope, they're not flickering like fireflies. They don't disappear when the day comes. They're like the rays of the sun, bold, beautiful and at the same time, painful to look at.

"No. There's no room for me to disagree with you."

I close my eyes in order not to see your hope breaks as my heart does. Your future is far heavier than the feelings my universe can offer. I open them again and I see the moon's reflection on the water instead. And as I stare at the moon on slightly trembling waters, something is creeping in the pit of my stomach and over time, it crawls into my chest. Something warm. Something that urges me to reach for the phone in my pocket and dial someone's number. I let go of denial. I let go of the fear of being frowned upon.

Yes. There's something I want that not pursuing it is worse than being dead. And I have been dead after you left. And throughout those years, I was looking for something that only exist when I am not directly looking at it.

As I listen to the ringing on the other line, out of the corner of my eyes, I see the light of the moon. I see the light of the sun's reflection. I find hope.