As soon as I come back to my room, I take off my shirt and throw myself on the bed, utterly exhausted.

Since I was fully engrossed into the new things I was experiencing, I barely noticed how terribly hot it was inside the workshop. Because of course, there is not a single fan in there. It's only after my mind drifted away that I noticed how soaked I am with sweat, to the point my light blue shirt became dark at some parts. Right after we were done packaging everything, I excused myself and headed back home before I passed out of heat stroke.

The ceiling fan above me cools down my wet back. I roll over to let my chest and stomach get some cool air as well. I turn my face sideways and see July sitting beside the window, eyes on the pages of a thick book. It's not mine, so I assume he took it from the shelf on the wall of this room.

"What book is that?" I ask.

"A book about the history of Holocaust," he replies without looking. "Maybe Flora was studying about these."

I roll to my side, facing him. "Is it well-written?"

He shakes his head. "It's very informative but it's written in a textbook language, so I can't focus. But there's nothing else to read. I'm barely processing any words on this page."

"Ah. You noticed the white shed in front of the house?"

He nods.

"That's apparently grandpa's library. Tiara told me that there are hundreds of books in there from all over the world. Let's– umm, I will try asking grandpa, so let's go there to get some books? Tomorrow? Or maybe tonight?"

He shrugs. "Okay."

And that's where the conversation ends. All conversations between me and July are like this these days, lacking jokes and interest, lacking any flavor whatsoever, like a savoury dish cooked without salt. It's as if we're two strangers sitting on the bus terminal chatting about the dull weather while waiting for the bus to come. Not to mention how he always talks in a low and slow voice, as if letting a word out is making him expend more energy than he has.

I rest my temple on my arm as I stare at him. His back is resting against the pillow, his legs are folded, and the book is lying on his lap. Neck hunched forward, his eyes move over the words, sometimes lingers for a long time in the same part, sometimes blink repeatedly, sometimes squint. His pale skin glows dazzlingly in the strong afternoon sunshine beaming in from behind the violet curtains of the window. He is right there, just within my arm's reach. And yet it feels like I'm watching him on a 360-degree video through a screen, while he exists faraway on a completely different planet.

As I'm thinking all this, he sighs and shuts the book. "This is too painful to read," he mutters, unclear whether he means the history or the boring language. Maybe both. He starts getting off the bed, probably to get another book. I roll on to my back and fold my legs towards me to give him space.

I cross my arms under my head and stare at the cream-coloured ceiling. Then I look down at my own body lying in front. Wait, why does my bellybutton look like–

The sound of a loud yelp makes my gaze sharply turn. Heart skipping a beat, I sit up and find July on the floor, groaning and rubbing his knee.

"July?" I get off the bed and sit across from him on the floor, heart pounding rapidly against my chest. "What happened? Did you slip? Are you hurt?"

"I don't know, my legs . . ."  He lets out a whimper, his face contracted in pain. "They just . . . lost balance."

"But why . . ."

"It's okay, I'm fine." He grabs the edge of the bed and slowly props himself up. I see his legs shaking as he does. That's when I remember how last night, when he was on the way to the bathroom, he once stumbled like this, unstable on his feet. He really has been looking too weak these days, barely moving from his place, talking in a low voice, sighing too often.

I feel a wave of fear wash over me. I ask, "July, are you . . . are you losing your strength?"

As soon as he hears that, he stops moving his hand over his leg. I see his Adam's apple do a wave as he swallows habitually. "Are you surprised?"

"Huh?"

"I'm not a human anymore, but my body still works like one."

"What do you mean . . .?" But as soon as I say it, I realize what he probably meant. That just like humans, his mental health has an obvious impact on his physical one. My heart sinks. Does that mean he is getting weaker because of me?

Before I can say anything, he says, in a monotonous voice, "You must've forgotten. After all, you think I'm a worm."

"July!" Surprised, I stand up, hands balled into fists, ears beginning to burn. "You're going too far with this. You know I didn't mean that!"

"The fact that it left your mouth must mean that you thought of it like that."

"No, I didn't!" My mouth trembles in search for the next words. In the end, the words I do manage to grasp are once again selfish. "Why are you being like this to me? This isn't like you. You're constantly saying hurtful things . . ." I trail away, suddenly afraid he will reply saying, Look who's talking.

But he doesn't, because he is July. He simply stares at me for a while, his gaze stronger than the sunlight bathing the forest outside. Then he looks down at his lap and rubs his forehead. "You're right, I'm sorry." He brings his legs up on the bed and crawls over to his pillow. Then he silently lies down on his back.

I sit down at the same spot he was sitting a few seconds ago. Putting my palm against my aching chest, I stare at the floor in a daze. Is this what our relationship has come down to now? A part of me fears that it's beyond repair, while the other part urges me that it's possible as long as I can confront the questions in my heart. But I just can't. I can't seem to find the energy or the will to sit down and think. All I want are distractions, a scope to ignore everything that must be done. When I grow up, I will probably be a very irresponsible adult.

Shaking my head, I turn back and ask, "You- you want me to get you another book from the shelf?"

He shakes his head. "No need." Then he turns his face to me, his eyes sliding down. "What's that?" he asks, pointing with his brows.

I move my hands to where he is looking. I realize he is talking about the piece of paper stuffed into the back pocket of my jeans. Quickly, I say, "N-n-nothing!" It comes out more aggressive than I intended.

July blinks several times. "Oh. S-sorry," he says again, before rolling to his side, back faced to me.

I get the deepest urge to grab a pair of scissors and cut off my whole tongue, maybe even slit my throat open so that no other word can ever leave my mouth.

-------------------------

5th August; Wednesday

"So yeah, that's how I gave the exams from home," Tiara completes, after what seems like 10 minutes of an extremely haphazard storytelling.

Though my mind is mostly absent today, I manage to catch enough of what she said to understand the whole thing. Because her mom suddenly got sick a few days before Aurora was born, Tiara took a special leave of absence from school and came back to Greenwoods. Her sister would've come in her stead, but she could not get a week off from work. Since uncle Ray has no other employees to manage his shop and grandpa is not too physically strong anymore, Tiara had to come to manage the house. She also got special permission to give the exams from home over Google Meet, where a teacher always kept a watch on her attentively. 

"Oh, I see," I reply while moving the bag of jars from the left to the right hand. "I asked around to some people about why you were absent, but no one could really tell me."

She shrugs, brushing some strands of red air away from her face. "No one really gives a crap about me. I'm practically invisible. So yeah."

Ouch, I shouldn't have said that. At this point I'm starting to think that I really don't deserve to have a tongue. If we could donate voice the same way we donate livers and kidneys, I would gladly give away mine.

But I decide to put the tongue to some use and say, "Well, I give a crap about you. I didn't before, but now I do."

She lets out a snort. "You just pity me because I'm lonely. And I don't need that stuff."

"I don't like it when people assume the intention behind something I said, because more often than not, they get absolutely wrong. This is one of those cases." I think back to every damned conversation with July in the past few days, where he constantly made his own meanings on something completely harmless that I said.

She nods. "Well, thank you, I guess."

It's clear that she doesn't believe me. I don't push any further. I ask, "When are you planning to come back to school?"

"Dunno." She kicks a piece of broken branch away from her path. "Don't wanna go back. Maybe I'll try staying here. Transfer. I told dad. To like, you know, look for schools here. So that I can transfer. He told me to think more. About like, whether I want to transfer. I do, but . . . it feels selfish. 'Cause money, you know? A lot of it was spent behind me. To like, send me to the city. He wanted me to have the best education. My dad, I mean. He wanted that. If I stay here, it would just all sweep to the gutter. Go to waste, I mean. Sweep to the gutter is like a . . . like a local idiom, in Greenwoods. So yeah, that's that."

I transfer the bag to my right hand just as the left one begins to ache. "I do understand where you're coming from. Staying away from your family must be hard." I can't say the same for myself, though. "But your father is right. The city does always have better education system. It's a really good school too. You have a brighter future there than this . . . rural area, out in the woods."

She laughs, but it's dry, as if I've said something really sarcastic. "Brighter future, you kidding me?"

"Why not?"

"Why not? I'm sure you can see. I'm fat, I'm ugly, then vitiligo– I have vitiligo which is making me more ugly, I zone out like every 10 minutes, I get bad grades, I don't have a hobby or a talent or a dream. I have no importance to the society, nothing to contribute. Nothing. I literally have nothing for a brighter future. People like me should just, like, hide away in the woods until they rot." She ends with another dry laugh, shaking her head.

I finally see why she doesn't have any friends. It's not simply because of the way she talks, or because of the way she is always living in her head. It's also because of her poor self-image, that leads her to view herself as something highly inferior and unimportant. And hence, she cannot fathom why anyone would approach her with friendly intentions, and she always assumes they're lying when they say something nice.

I don't get to reply to her, because we reach the first house to deliver our honey, the house of a man named Lucas Jenkins. He is uncle Ray's high school buddy, and lives with his wife and two sons. He opens the door with a bright smile on his face, then hugs Tiara and shakes my hand. We give him the jar with the yellow wrapping cloth because that's his favourite colour. He asks Tiara about this and that but I barely pay any attention, my mind still on Tiara's words.

After we say goodbye to Mr. Jenkins, we head to the next house, which is about five minutes away. We're still inside the forest, walking among the countless trees and bushes, but unlike the last time, we're on a proper trail.

We don't talk on the way to the next house, which belongs to a widow named Catalina. She was a good friend of Tiara's grandma, and apparently is an undiscovered poet. Her hands tremble with Parkinson's as she accepts the honey jar covered with a baby blue cloth. She smiles at me with kindness glittering in her dark eyes, but I feel sadness wrapping my heart instead of warmth. Looking at old, lonely people like her always makes me terribly afraid of my own future.

The next two houses are about 10 minutes away. Tiara was right, the houses really are spread over, and it's a lot of ground to cover. Regardless, it's good to do something productive like bringing a smiles to people's faces and avoiding dealing with all the problems in hand.

When I glance at Tiara, I see her eyes fixed ahead unblinkingly, obviously out of focus. I clear my throat and begin, "So."

She snaps out. "Hmm?"

"So like, you told me that there are many stories in your head. Wanna share one?" I asked her simply to keep her focused on the route. She is the one who knows where the house are, I don't. And it's dangerous to walk through a forest while zoned out. Thank God I came with her, or she would surely walk up to a tree.

Her face lights up immediately. "Yes!" she excitedly replies. Then she begins, "So last night, I was imagining a place called Bridgetown, you see? It's basically a little village, but the whole thing is built over a big lake, standing entirely on bamboo bridges! That's right, basically there are loads of bamboo bridges standing one after the other to cover the whole lake. And in every bridge there are little huts built by keeping an adequate distance from each other. These huts are all inhabited by lonely people who have no friends or family, but in reality, the whole village is a family. A family of lonely people. Everyone understands each other there, because everyone has been through the cold days of loneliness. Everyone has a special bond.

"The best thing about Bridgetown is the fact that if you want to go to the other side of the lake, you will have to cross one of the many bridges. And when you cross a bridge, you have to go through several houses. There is no other way. Everytime someone crosses the bridge and enters a house, the inhabitant there gives them a glass of water to drink, or maybe a few peanuts to eat. Or they sing a song on their ukelele and dance to entertain the guest. Sometimes they tell a story, other times they give important life advice. If a cold-hearted man enters Bridgetown, his heart will melt with the kindness of lonely strangers living inside those huts. If a suicidal man enters Bridgetown, he will see the beauty of life in those people and want to live longer himself. So you enter Bridgetown as one kind of person, but when you come out you're a completely a different type of person. That's how Bridgetown is, you know?"

She takes a break to catch her breath while I stare at her, astonished. What a beautiful little world she has created inside her mind, so filled with the kind of peace the real world will always lack. Not to mention the sparkle in her eyes and the way she is not talking in a disorganized way anymore. Because she is talking about something she loves, the dullness in her tone has been replaced by a brighter one, and her haphazard way of talking has become perfectly organized. How strange, yet how wonderful. Curious to know more, I ask, "So what do those people do for a living?"

She purses in her lips, which means she hasn't thought that far yet. But then she says, "They live over a lake, so they fish, of course. There's always enough fish and enough water for the whole town. They catch fish in the morning, then head to the city to sell them in the afternoon. They return in the evening with some rice and vegetables which they bought from their earned money, and cook themselves dinner. Rice, fish, and vegetables. A perfectly balanced diet. No one has any diseases in Bridgetown, no one grows up in malnutrition. They grow up with happiness. Sometimes they share food across bridges, especially if someone manages to catch a lot of fish. Sometimes they jump from one bridge to other, enter a random house, and have dinner with the person who lives in there. Everyone is familiar with each other after all. In this way, these lonely souls abandoned by the world heal each other."

I find myself to be genuinely fascinated with the imaginary town, to the point I can almost picture it vividly in my own mind. I even feel a desire to go to a place like this and see the people pass warm days with laughter and kindness. "Sounds like a truly beautiful village. I wish it was real."

She nods. "I wish too. But there are some things that can only exist in daydreams."

She's right. Daydreams will always be better than reality. That's why they are daydreams. I tell her, "You have a . . . marvelous imagination. Who said you're not interesting?"

"Thanks. If you want, I can tell you more of my stories."

I smile. "I would love to hear them."

We reach the next two houses, which sit side by side in the middle of this forest like two friends. The first one belongs to a Sri Lankan family, whose only son is Aris' best friend in school. In exchange of the jar of honey, they give us a plate of their native sweets called Savboro, which are basically coconut cookies. In the second house lives the pastor of the church Aunt Sayra and grandpa frequents. The tall, pretty woman repeats how there was no need for this gift several times, but unlike what you'd expect, it doesn't come across as fake. She truly is modest from heart.

After that we head to the final house, which is outside the forest. The fact that there were so many houses within the forest but July and I didn't come across a single human being truly shows just how unlucky I am.

Tiara and I talk some more. She tells me how half of her family is Catholic while the other half is Jewish. She, her mother, and grandpa are Catholics while uncle Ray and sister Flora are Jewish. Aris is being introduced to both until he grows up and chooses either ("But not neither," Tiara adds). While Tiara isn't particularly religious, her sister is so deep into it that she reads thick books about Jewish history, memorizes the Torah, and does as much activism as she can against anti-Semitism. That explains her little collection of books in the room.

"So there are never like, fights among the two sides?" I ask.

"Nah, never. We all practice our religion in our personal ways and respect each other's beliefs and systems. Although I think mom is trying her best to get Aris more to the Christian side without like, dad knowing. But other than that, it's all fine. It's not that hard."

It really isn't as hard as some people make it to be, that's for sure. As we're talking, we reach the last house, which is right beside the road. The house is still within the forest, just on the other side of the road and quite close to it. The two women that live here are aunt Sayra's friends from the days she used to work in a flower shop here in Greenwoods.

Apparently, one of the women, whose name is Sana, is getting married next week. So in exchange of the honey, we get a wedding invitation card. Just as I'm feeling glad that the invitation is only for Tiara's family, Miss Sana invites me directly by mouth, telling me how she will be very disappointed if she doesn't see such a 'handsome young man' in her special wedding. Umm, handsome?

As we begin to make our way back to our house, my feet has already started to ache. I tell Tiara, "To be frank, I'm not a fan of weddings."

"Me neither. But hey, this one is actually kind of special."

"Really? How?"

-----------------------------

When we reach near the waterfall, I tell Tiara to go ahead without me.

The sun has fallen behind the trees, passing the spotlight entirely to the moon as the violet shade of the sky slowly gives into night blue. I can hear the song of the waterfall mixed with the rustling of countless leaves of nameless trees all around.

"But it's getting dark," she says.

"I . . . there are some things I need to think about. And I think I should do it here, by myself. It's okay, I know the way back. And it's a full moon today, so there's enough light around"

"Nah, it's gonna rain soon. I saw the clouds while we were coming back."

"Oh. It's okay, I know a place where I can take cover."

She nods. "Well, okay then." The fact that she doesn't ask too many questions is an admirable trait. "If you become late, should I come over and find you here?"

I shake my head. "No need. It might take me a while."

"Oh. Okay then. See ya."

I watch her back disappear among the shadows of the trees. I turn left and walk to the pond where I would've taken my last breath if not for a certain baby crying uncontrollably. Life is truly full of strange things, and it's quite funny if you don't take them too seriously.

I walk until my ankles can feel the chilly water seeping through my sandles. The pond that would float with colours during the day is now painted in a dark and monochromatic blue. When I look up, I see a ball of light faintly peeking out from behind the transparent gray clouds. Looks like it really will rain. Regardless, my hand reaches out to the back pocket of my jeans and fishes out the folded piece of paper. Newspaper, to be more specific.

I stare at it for a while, my heart pounding all of a sudden. A part of me feels guilty for reading it without his permission. But another part tells me that there is nothing more important right now than reading this letter, because this will inevitably lead me to the conclusion I have been running away from. This letter will give me the push I need, by showing him and his pain to me in their truest form. With this letter, I will enter the Bridgetown, and when I come out, I will be a totally different person.

So I take a deep breath, and unfold his past.

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hellooo :))

this has been the longest chapter so far, but for some reason, i quite like it. i actually plan to write a short story based in the village Bridgetown someday, maybe even make this Bridgetown a place in Pomaland. it's my country after all, i can do whatever the fuck i want 😌.

well well well, the "Rain Castleton's Viral Letter" that i first mentioned in chapter 8 of TWFH is finally going to be revealed next chapter. are you excited??

thanks a lot for reading. remember to take care of yourself, always!

— love, Poma