I published this essay on this blog a few years ago. Today, I am republishing the revised version of this essay, edited by Jen Campbell. — Whenever it’s raining outside, my mind always goes to a bowl of instant noodles. A steaming plate of comfort topped with egg and fried shallots, drenched in my favorite
Our retrouvailles marked the end of summer in your city. The city I came to love despite its constant windy chills and random rain showers: in summer. We remembered the couch—with plush pillows and soft blankets thrown carelessly over its surface; something that reminded us of the chaotic beauty of a studio of an artist. We spent so many times snuggling there;
When I called you handsome, I was actually seeing something beyond the way you look. I was referring to a pair of wonderful eyes that you have: not because they are light brown or protected by such gorgeous eyelashes or stuff like that, but because whenever they looked at me, gently, I could see my
Ours is a bumpy road. Wait. No. Rewind. To be brutally honest, let me put it this way: mine is a bumpy road. Yes. Mine, and mine alone. Because one day, “we” disappeared in front of a small alley in a small island, the two characters, W and E, being washed out by the drizzle.