When I think about my friendship, I think about that last time.

September, 2018

I was re-doing college, entering as a second-year university student into a new college, because the old college didn’t quite suit me. Though I made some wonderful friends, the conservative college culture and the conservative college students made for a borderline oppressive experience to someone of my nature.

 I digress.

On a weekday night early on in the semester, I had just finished my below-average college dinner and was crossing the short path from the dining hall to my dorms. There was someone ahead of me, and I slowed my pace. He was carrying a laundry basket, and he took a while to shift the weight of the basket onto one arm. Moving automatically, I sidestepped him and pulled open the door - he shot me a look of gratitude, and moved past to walk up the stairs.

We shifted back into the original arrangement, that is to say that he shuffled up the stairs ahead of me, whilst I slowly trailed my feet across the grey-tiled floor. Having nothing else to do but participate in this preordained march, I openly studied his profile, or what I could see of it from behind. I’d seen that he was wearing glasses, and that his hair was fuzzy and short. He didn’t seem particularly extraverted, with his shy countenance and nondescript clothing. The only feature which suggested a uniqueness or a character trait, was a gloomy rose that bloomed atop his right elbow.

“Nice tattoo” I commented.

He looked over his shoulder and smiled sheepishly.

“Oh. Yeah, thanks.”

We returned to companionable silence, and I grinned to myself. I felt as though that really was going to be the extent of the conversation. I didn’t think he was being rude, that his monosyllabic reply was pointed. His self-conscious shuffling gave me the impression that he couldn’t think of anything to say in response. My hypothesis, which looked to determine his shyness, was easily confirmed by his attempt to reciprocate my curiosity, an attempt which featured some stammering, and the usual small talk questions about my name and background. It just so happened that we were both Malaysian. Such a trivial thing as sharing the same nationality may not seem like the revelation we both chose to treat it as, but when you’re in a foreign country and can connect over your birthplace – a birthplace that other students have only vague and inaccurate notion of, it is unique. We stood in the stairwell, removing our neutral accents and introducing our local slang. We beamed at each other with unfiltered happiness, the way that children do, and connected with such ease you would think we’d been designed by the same person, using the same language the way that only two models of the same make can do. We were utterly different, but at the core, we were the same.

On the outset, I was bubbly and extraverted, whilst he was shy and observant. Internally, he was cheeky and opinionated, whilst I was thoughtful and patient. From a glance, total opposites, but underneath, two souls in harmony. That first encounter was a summary of everything that was ever to be. It was the meeting of my soulmate. It was the first time I encountered this special, special person called Marcel.

April, 2019

It was Easter break, 2019. I was now in my third year of studying the undergraduate degree at university. Everyone was going home for the holiday, and for most people that was rural Victoria, Queensland or New South Wales. For me, it was Kuala Lumpur, the capital city of Malaysia. K.L. is a hot, busy city. On one hand, It’s teeming with local food and foreign cuisine alike, and it’s a vibrant city, fulI of the many races that come together to form the Malaysian nationality. On the other hand, when you’ve spent your whole life growing up in the bustling city, the excitement that it holds to tourists doesn’t quite apply to yourself. I had long ago given up on enjoying the city in its humid splendour, and consigned myself to chilling out in urban suburbia. Until Marcel called, asking me to come visit him in Penang.

I booked an evening flight, scheduled to fly on the same day that Marcel called. The flight duration was 45-minutes, and it felt like the plane had only just departed Kuala Lumpur before the cabin crew was announcing our imminent arrival. When I walked through the arrival hall I saw a familiar face and I broke out into a jog, running straight into his arms and nearly bowling him over.

“I can’t believe you’re here!” He yelled, drawing stares from those walking past.

“I can’t believe I’m here!” I shouted, pulling him in for a ceremony of back-slapping and foot-hopping.

“Are you hungry? Come on, I know a place.” He shot me a cheeky grin and, shouldering my duffel bag, we sashayed towards the parking lot.

Whenever I think about Penang, I classify it into three main areas, based on what Marcel showed me: the town, the coast and the hills. It’s an island of humid air and drowsy heat. Georgetown is a charming combination of colonial buildings, Indian temples, Chinese shophouses, quaint mosques and mouth-watering hawker stalls. As you head away from Georgetown and up north, the land transforms into hilly forest and the Batu Ferringhi coast, along which the tourist-laden beach is situated.

That evening, Marcel drove us to a chicken rice shop wedged into Penang hill. High up on the hill, the restaurant was a beacon of light, being the only source of light on a hill otherwise draped in darkness. Standing high in the hills, it was easy to gaze across the landscape and believe that the island was otherworldly. My eyes swept across a landscape littered with lanterns and neon lights, jungle and black water, and I thought: what realm have I been spirited to? We went home after a relaxed dinner, and I fully expected the night to end there. Birds resting in the trees outside must have found their otherwise peaceful homes interrupted by the excited jibber jabber of two humans, their cackles and laughter carrying on long into the night.

I awoke as if summoned. Pulling away from the sweet embrace of sleep, I blinked in the darkness, processing the deliberate occurrence of sound, arranged like a melody. My eyes stared unseeingly at Marcel’s bed. Then I saw that the quilt was blue, and I put this image away forever. The room was cool and I shivered, instinctively pulling the duvet over my exposed collarbone. I could perceive Marcel’s empty mattress, and my gaze slid across the room to a dark figure, perched over the desk. He studied an object that glowed a ghoulish green, , and then proceeded to glide his hands across a pad, pressing keys in a sequence that elicited sounds of ethereal beauty and romance. How can I faithfully recall a moment that transcends written word? How can I transpose a religious experience? My head sank back into the pillow and I closed my eyes, enjoying the precious melody that quivered through the air. The song conveyed a sense of innocence and beauty unadorned.

“Beautiful.” I whispered to myself. The music ended and I heard the chair creak.

“This is what I want to do now,” he said.

“What is that?” I croaked.

“It’s a synthesizer. I’ve been trying to figure it out,” he smiled in amusement.

“What will you call the song?”

“What? No. It’s not even a song yet. I’m playing random notes.”

I nodded slowly. It wasn’t lost on me that he could so easily dismiss what had clearly just been a religious experience as something of little consequence; His modest response reflected what I already knew to be true of his character, it was not a modesty but an obliviousness to his musical giftedness. I suppose that if you are used to operating at a certain standard, and demand an even higher standard, you may be unaware of how that standard is perceived by others. The reality was that Marcel was a musical genius, so talented you wouldn’t believe it until you saw and felt it. He’d mastered the piano and released two classical albums. Now, being satisfied that he’d accomplished what he wanted, he was moving on to the synth. I had no doubt he’d master that, too.

When I think about my friendship with Marcel, I think about that last time. I recall the drive up Batu Ferringhi, the northern coast of Penang, and the ocean as we drove beside it, ceaselessly undulating, water waving on forever and ever. Sitting with him at a lonely shack on the cliffside, drinking our coconut shakes and sitting in companiable silence, I remember thinking: it is this simple. Up until I met Marcel, I didn’t know peace like that. My mind was never one to be quiet. I was always thinking, meditating on the past, or anxious about the future. Sitting on a stool overlooking the water, everything inside went quiet. We didn’t talk. Time stopped moving. Everything was still. The moment went on forever.

 I don’t know if I’ve found many moments like that again. To enter a state of meditation without consciously initiating it. And I know, also, that someone can be such a presence that they enable you to be present. Or that you can be at such peace within yourself by being around a grounding presence. I’ve visited that memory again and again. I can’t feel the emotional connection but that scene has been immortalised. It always plays like a movie: two friends, drinking coconuts, staring past the cliff.