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writtenatdawn · 3 months

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Nights at Harry's

Word count: 990

It has been two months since I left.

I traded the gray winter sky for the brilliant blue sky unique to tropical countries—which happens to be where I’m from. I kept repeating that I missed the scorching warmth of the sun during fall and into early winter, but now that I’ve got it again, it feels foreign. I have to continuously set my air conditioner to 15 degrees just to be able to function because what used to be my typical weather now feels too hot. Maybe I actually liked being close to the Arctic more than I thought I did.

I find myself missing my cold dorm room, with the heater that I could never quite seem to get to work. When I think about them, I can't help but also reminisce about the unreliable bus schedule on the weekends and how happy my friends and I would get when the bus we had been waiting for an hour or so finally arrived. Afterwards, I am forced to remember Harry's, the famous senior bar on campus, and all the times I had to stand in line for hours on end in the bitter cold just to get inside.

Then, as I reflect on my final two weeks there, my mind always circles back to you and your striking friends, who somehow always manage to get there before me, getting your IDs checked or on one of those smoke breaks in front of the bar. You, staring intently at your phone, ignoring your friends who are clearly drunk out of their minds. You, laughing with your Guinness pint on your left hand. You, simply standing, but somehow stealing the show.

It was only that one night in early December when I first realized how pretty you were, as you talked to the tall bouncer, who surprisingly was still smaller than you. What are the chances that I happen to like pretty things?

The memory of Harry's small and sticky dance floor remains vivid in my thoughts. Despite its shortcomings, it's where I experienced some of the funniest things—like the first time we had a casual interaction. My friend, who is your neighbor, greeted you and mentioned that she had seen you shopping for school merchandise the other day. You replied that you realized that but weren't too sure, so you didn't say hi. Then my friend laughed because the same thing had happened to her, and because of that, I laughed too since I was with her. Now that I think about it, I vaguely remember thinking that you have beautiful eyes when I saw you that day.

And I know, for sure, that I wasn't the only one who shared that opinion. My friends, for example, all think so too. I’m pretty sure the different girls you had clinging to you every night I met you at the bar probably think you’re quite dashing as well. Can’t blame them. Because when I saw the scene, I wished it was me dancing in your arms under the cheap fluorescent light. But I never got that; the closest I came was just singing with you, and even then, it wasn’t just us two.

I think it was after the makeshift graduation ceremony that marked the conclusion of our exchange program. Many of us exchange students flooded Harry’s that night, celebrating something I didn’t know then, and still don’t know now because I thought there was nothing to be happy about, and the idea of leaving campus for good was heartbreaking. Perhaps that night I was recognizing how I managed to make a home out of that Midwest town.

At some point throughout the night, the DJ started playing Piano Man by Billy Joel, and I found myself singing—or rather, screaming—“Bill, I think this is killing me," with you. We exchanged the silliest, largest grins as our right hands hugged our friends and our left hands clutched our drinks; you with your mug because it was a Mug Night, and me with my shot glass. Just like that, I was gone. My attention and mind were no longer mine to control—instead, they belonged to you.

I couldn’t care less that you’re notorious for being a womanizer.

Even when George mentioned that 9 out of 10 times you came to the pizza place, it was always with different girls, I still couldn’t care less. Especially when he continued to add that you’re sweet and he always found it pleasant to chat with you. You see, I trust him, and I value his words because George has always been kind to me and my friends. One time, when we stayed out so close to closing time because we were so drunk, he didn’t really mind and even sent us home with a box of free pizza.

So, when one night our paths intersected and you said that you’d be more than happy to show me around because during the short time you were there, you’d seen most of the town already, I genuinely considered taking you up on that offer.

But I’m too timid when I’m in love, apprehensive when I’m excited, and reticent when I truly want something. Hence, when I finally gave you my response, you had boarded your return flight.

I have to be content with just knowing the color of your iris, that you always order beer, and that you stand as tall as the door to our favorite bar. I suppose the knowledge of how you lived and walked the campus during that fall semester wasn't mine to hold onto. But, to be honest, whenever I hear the name of that town while going about my day here, I can't help but hope for the chance to uncover everything there is to know about you. Yet, I don't know how to make it happen, because you're already just another name in my phone book in less than a year.

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writtenatdawn · 7 months

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Short Notice

Word count: 563 words

I immediately noticed his presence when he came into the room, everyone does. Every mind that was preoccupied with mundane tasks almost effortlessly turned their attention to him—he always has that kind of influence on people. I try to keep my focus on my phone, acting as if I haven’t a clue that the boy, whose presence leaves the room in a trancelike state, has his sole attention on me.

“Hey,” his voice came out as light as a feather but I felt like I had been hit by a brick, which struck my defense into debris.

In the seconds that followed, I was able to come up with a long list of things that I wanted to say to him. Alas, the sentences got deliberately mixed up in my head and the words got stuck in my throat. All verbs, adjectives, and nouns seem to disappear momentarily and I only managed to form a short “Hey, too.”

Jaehyun smiled, so subtly that I thought it was my brain playing one of its vicious tricks on me. “Do you mind if I sit next to you? I only slept for an hour today, I can’t trust myself to stay awake and not miss my next flight.”

“My flight is already boarding. I’m actually sitting here to wait for the queue to shrink,” I answered, pointing quickly at Gate 4. He cast a glance at the long line of passengers who had their passport and boarding pass out for inspection. This time he chuckled.

“Seems like our schedule doesn’t lines up,” he commented without much surprise. It never lined up the way we intended to in the past either, and there is no reason for us—me—to expect that it will stop doing so now, or ever. If I were to be honest with myself, that doesn’t make it any less easy.

“I guess so,” I replied promptly, trying to ignore the slight disappointment that I feel after knowing that we don’t have much time left to converse. As if on cue, the line moves up faster than it did before. The queue now only consists of two passengers, a businessman ending his phone call and a woman who looks like she’s going on a vacation.

“It’s nice to bump into you again,” he stopped his sentence there. For a brief moment, it seemed like he was going to add something else, but I instantaneously disposed of that thought after realizing it was me begging for an implication of a possible next meeting. This one’s already an anomaly.

I gather up my things and slowly rise from my seat, all the while quietly weighing whether a handshake will prove to be appropriate or quite the contrary, unfitting. I peek from the corner of my eyes, Jaehyun—with his black shirt and black beanie that he wears a little too often, even back then—stands up from his seat with both of his hands tucked deep inside the pockets of his jeans. If I don’t think that those brown eyes—even in its coldest gaze—look like the idea of my very own safe haven, I would thank him for helping me come to a decision faster.

“Well, this is me. Goodbye.”

“Take care. Goodbye, you.”

I think it’s around 200-steps before I get back to sitting again. The cramped confines of economy class had never felt this isolating before.

[Republished to fit the updated blog post format]

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writtenatdawn · 7 months

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Mistranslation

Word count: 482 words

I fixed my eyes on the painting in front of me. The confluence of colors makes up a picture of people gathering in a grand ballroom, beautifully framed in wood that has been intricately carved and lacquered gold. It doesn’t require an art degree to agree that the painting is breathtakingly stunning.

“It’s … people,” said a voice from my right, weak—just enough for me to hear. “But don’t get me wrong, the painting is clearly very great. I mean … turning blues and reds into a realistic painting of people? The painter must be madly talented.”

I chuckled, amused by Jaehyun’s commentary. “Exactly my thoughts, too.” He smiled upon hearing my remark.

“Right,” he then mumbled. “Sorry, I have my shortcomings with words.”

“No, no, that’s fine! I imagine I can’t even start to describe any of the artworks here for our report, not if I want to give them justice,” I quickly blurted. Jaehyun was going to burst into a fit of laughter, but decided to hold back.

“There goes our A, I guess.” Both of us giggled sneakily.

Him and I walked side-to-side to the next display. It consisted of two transparent guitar cases, one filled with cigarette butts and the other with capsules. The surface is covered with people singing and playing instruments—line art style.

“It’s filled with cigarette butts,” Jaehyun elaborated matter-of-factly, unintentionally mimicking a news anchor reading their script.

“And the other one is filled with capsules,” I chimed in. In an attempt to suppress my laughter, I settled for a smile.

I saw Jaehyun breaking into a smile himself, following in my footsteps. He raised his palm to put it on the back of his head. He fixed his eyes on the guitar cases in front of us, trying to decipher the meaning of the art.

“I’m quite sure it’s a critique on today’s music scene, but it’s hard for me to read beyond that,” Jaehyun sighed in defeat. “If you squint, I think it’s also an indirect barb at our campus’ band members who seemed to smoke all the time. Ah, whatever. What do I know anyway?”

“Don’t worry, your opinion is valid,” I assured him. While I meant every word, the manner in which I framed it was deceptive. Jaehyun laughed, most certainly due to his misinterpretation of what I said.

We continued our tour of the museum to look at numerous thought-provoking art pieces. Our brain is constantly aroused to contemplate and ponder in an effort to make sense of the art, but we constantly fall short. Perhaps the fault is in our limited vocabulary and understanding of all the finer things in life, or perhaps it’s the quiet talks of other visitors. However, my inner self suspected that Jaehyun’s disconcerting presence was to blame.

There’s only one thing that I know for sure. If it ever comes to it, I know I can attest to the last one.

[Republished to fit the updated blog post format]

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writtenatdawn · 7 months

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Chicane

Word count: 587 words

He loves the cars, the speed, the sound of engines revving, the circuits, the hours spent in simulators, and, despite the many times the strategists have let him down, he loves his team. He loves the sport to bits, even if it costs him. Wackersdorf, Zuera, and Genk stole his childhood. Montmeló, Imola, and Spielberg robbed his adolescence. Spa, Monza, and Baku raided his parents’ marriage and in consequence he lost, what he believed, his once happy family.

Despite everything, he never blamed racing. Even without the assurance from his father that everything was going okay. Prior to everyone convincing him that he had been born for this. Long before the promises of the glory that lay ahead. His passion was enough; he believes he’ll be okay as long as he has that.

So he kept going and did what he liked best: he won races and stood on the podium. He even did a shoey once in celebration of his grand slam in Monaco—some nights he’d tell people that it was the catalyst that helped him earn his first world championship title. Jeong Jaehyun, the 2021 Formula One World Champion. He remembered returning to Seoul to find congratulations plastered all over town, acknowledging his victory and the years it had taken to get there.

Every morning as he wakes up, he sends his gratitude to God for all of His blessings. He was able to create new fond memories for every one that was stolen. For every love he had lost, he gained a thousand more.

Love, lost. Honest to God, despite all the good things in his life, he's still not sure how much more of it he'd need to make up for this one particular loss.

He can still precisely recall the cadence and the labored breathing; the exact moment when she said she couldn't do it any longer. The private jets and luxury cars. The kisses that precede podium celebrations. The lavish vacations over the summer breaks. The soothing hugs for every bad weekends. The ill-timed phone calls and their half-assed conversations. The rumors and all the pictures that go with it. The sleepless nights. The gloomy mornings. The unanswered questions. The abrupt loss of desire to strive for the affection that was once everything. She’s done.

He doesn’t remember talking back or defending himself because it was true. There you have it, Jeong Jaehyun, who is often commended for his drive and focus, lost sight of one of the most important individuals in his life who had been by his side from the beginning. Just a boy working his way up. No title, no nothing.

Her sudden exit from his life was brutal. He had no idea that the loss of a loved one would lead him to go through withdrawal. She was a drug, and he was unaware that he was an addict.

Sometimes he sits in the quiet room of his apartment and wishes that the days would pass more slowly, but they continue to go by faster than his car can go on the race tracks. The things he would sacrifice to keep the wonderful times close to where he is at this point in time. He prayed, and prayed, and pleaded to his brain to keep all of the memories vivid and genuine.

But, time is, after all, nothing if not ruthless.

As he set foot in city after city, he noticed the memories dimming and her gradually turning into a mere notion. A blur. Later, a ghost.

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