“Talking to the Sun” by Emily

I wonder what would happen if I picked up the phone and dialed the sun’s number. Would it go to voicemail? Or would they pick up, already expecting my phone call? 

I would ask them how their day was, but then realize, a little foolishly, that it probably never ends. I hope your life is going well, I’d say, mine is going okay. But I have a few questions.

If we could see each other through the phone, the sun might see the way my lips quiver, how they pull apart and tighten, how my gaze shifts around, flickering. The sun would sigh, something between tender and tired, then say, I have all of the time in the universe.

I would have already memorized exactly what I wanted to ask before placing the call. But even so, I would hesitate, the vowels and letters getting stuck in my chest. The threshold that is my mouth would connect the thoughts I’ve spent too many years of my life wondering to the reality of parts of my past, unknown to me. Is that something you can prepare for? The knowledge that serves to shed light on how I came into existence, and the reason the world placed me on this path.

I’d clear my throat and ask, a flurry of questions tumbling from my lips: Were you there? On that day? Did you see them? Do you know why they left me?

The sun would know what I am talking about, because they see everything. If not the sun, then I would call the moon and ask the same questions. If not the moon, then perhaps the earth would know.

I picture the sun closing their eyes and nodding, letting out a small, thoughtful hum. Yes, yes I was there. 

The air would get caught in my throat as I wait, waiting for the sun to continue.

Ah, it was just as I was peeking over the mountain, the sun would say. I could barely see them between the narrow streets. 

I wonder briefly if the street was crowded that early in the morning, if the harsh syllables of Mandarin would billow up between the rafters and the scent of cigarette smoke would string itself between opposing balconies. I’d like to think, at least, that the street would become crowded as the day progressed or else I might not have been found, tiny and bawling, stuffed into a worn down blanket. I’d like to think that they chose that street for that reason, so that I could be found.

I’d gulp and try not to cry. Do you know why they left me? Did you hear them say anything? 

The sun might shake their head and say, I have no idea why, they didn’t say. But I do know one thing. 

And if I could see the sun’s expression, I imagine it would be gentle, caring and consoling, maybe even smiling. It would embrace me with its warmth and cradle me in it’s chest, swathed in light instead of rags.

Your mother and father kissed your head and told you they loved you very, very much. They hoped you would find a happier future, a prosperous life. They hoped you wouldn’t worry too much and trust them. And they said, as they set you down softly, that you would always be their beautiful child. 

I wish the sun would take my hand then, as they finish speaking, and hold it, while the silence falls between us. Perhaps the touch would replace the chill that creeps through my bones with something warmer and lighter. I would probably cry, because even though I’ve known those words for my whole life anyway, it still hurts to imagine them walking away.

Something like drowning, deep, overwhelming.

Dear me,

A lot of things have happened since I last checked in. I started a relationship with a man I love very very much, who treats me sweetly and cares for me. I completed my frustrating spring semester of courses by persevering and not letting the system be unfair to me or my classmates. I traveled to Japan for a brief interlude between spring semester and summer research to explore Hokkaido, and inevitably bond and argue (when do we ever not argue) with my mother. Summer research went much more quickly than I ever would have expected, the weeks stringing themselves together with my evening physics classes and weekly meet-ups with *****.

We had a moment in our relationship where I had thought it might be better if we broke up, because I didn’t know if we were looking in the same direction, if we wanted to commit to the same things. I wanted to shy away from the consequences of a deeper relationship. And after finding out that I would be studying abroad, I feared what the distance might do to us. The rut that our relationship had settled into felt a lot like complacency, no excitement, something very mundane or routine. After having a long conversation, after thinking that it might be better to stop, ***** made the effort to change things, to turn things around. And even in the span of a month, things felt fresher, better. I suddenly wanted more of him, more of his love, more of a future. Which made leaving him in the airport that Friday in July so so hard.

But I got on a plane and flew to Singapore, all by myself. And that was hard. Harder than anything I had ever done. I arrived by myself, explored Changi airport by myself. Came to NUS by myself. Moved into my dorm, called *****, laid down and wept. Because I felt weak and small, I felt as though I wasn’t meant to be there, that I wasn’t interesting enough to be worth having friends or deserving enough to be in an entirely different country and enjoy it. It took a lot of mental discipline to put myself out there, to want to make friends with people, spend time with them, and let them learn you even more deeply than you would hope or expect them to.

As I progress through each stage of my life, I am realizing that no matter how much I think I might know about myself, about how I want to present myself to the people around me, and about how carefully I chose to spend time with the people I am around, I will still inevitably get hurt, or make mistakes. People will be misleading and untrustworthy. No matter how well I try to ensure that people won’t hurt me, it still fucking hurts. It’s scary to be abandoned again, after swearing to yourself that you wouldn’t let it happen again. After doing whatever you could to ensure that things would turn out alright. I don’t know why things like this happen. Sometimes it makes me want to look up at God, if there ever is such a thing as God or Gods, ask why me? Why did I have to go through what I did? What did I do to deserve it? And maybe I’m exaggerating with the pain and stress I felt, but regardless, it was traumatic and experience I wish to never repeat.

In reflection of the events that occured, being stranded at the airport, being ditched by someone I considered a friend, having a flight delayed so late I didn’t sleep the entire night, bawling my eyes out in the streets of Bangkok because I had no help or phone service….I just want to make peace with the misery that I went through. I want to overcome that disgusting feeling of self-pity. Even now, four days after having returned, and still sick from a pretty nasty cough, it is hard to remind myself that my hardships aren’t everyone’s to burden — but that I am allowed to feel hurt and traumatized by what I had to go through alone.

After ranting to my dad and coming more to terms with it all, I can definitely say that I am 100% grateful to have made it through the situation with my liveliness and my health (minus the cold/sore-throat I picked up from stress I assume) intact.

Much love, Emily