18 August, 2019

The flame from the beeswax candle has extinguished in the breeze.

For the first few moments, I look all around me with a frantic urgency, desperate for a miracle, for it all to be a mere act. But the more I look, the more the wil-o'-the-wisp of hope in my chest begins to die. I clutch my temples tightly, gripped by insanity, feeling as though I am being skinned alive, the flesh of my body being peeled off from my bones. It's real. He really is gone. He really won't ever come back. I really won't be able to see him ever again. This is all real.

I want to scream. I want to wail and thrash my limbs around like a baby. I want to be consoled with false hopes. I want to be cradled in someone's arm and be told it's all going to be okay.

But I know I can't do any of that. So instead, I slowly stand up, hugging the candle to my chest. And then, I run.

"Whenever shit goes down, just fucking run."

I run along the edge of the lake, as fast as my legs allow, strong wind crashing into my face, thunder rumbling overhead. The ground shakes beneath me, while I run and I scream, the warm tears that trickle down my eyes cooling down in the wind. My body breaks as I visualize a future where I've lost everything and everyone that matters to me. My legs wobble at the possibility that loneliness will feast on me in my adulthood until I end with no soul standing by my bedside. My heart aches as I realize that my youth is slowly slipping away from between my fingers like fine sand and there is nothing I can do to stop it.

So I run and run, until I bump into something on the ground and stumble over, pain shooting up my cheek and elbow. I manage to turn around right in time to save the candle from breaking. Lying on the green grass I stare at the reflection of the starry midnight sky on the lake. I remain there for as long as it takes for the stars to be covered by dark clouds, my thoughts drifting miles and miles away. For a moment, I forget entirely about what happened to me just now. But only for a moment. When the reality smacks my mind once again and droplets of rain begin to kiss my face, I feel as though I have been beaten all over, bones broken, blood ooozing out of invisible wounds.

It begins to rain, but I lie there motionless, letting the clouds hover over me, letting the drops soak my body. I can't cry, so the sky cries for me. At some point, I fall asleep.

Next morning, I wake up to a world without July, just like I had awoken to a world without Dawn 10 months ago.

I can no longer feel my body. I can no longer feel anything in general. I open my eyes and am hit with a blinding sunlight, a tremulous reflection of it falling on the wavy surface of the lake. I close my eyes again. In the darkness behind my eyelids, I try searching for whatever part of myself I've lost. But I don't manage to find it.

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

I send Edgar a message letting him know that I'm coming back and will be getting off at Arleise Station. He sends a reply within a few seconds, but I'm not in the mood of checking it.

Instead, I decide to finish the two pending jobs: read Dawn's last note, and see the rest of July's sketches. I realize I'm still not ready for the former, so I go for the latter. I take out July's sketchbook from my bag. I hesitate a bit to open it, but curiosity gets the best of me.

I move past the sketches he has already shown me, which don't amount to much. The last sketch I saw was the sparrow one, which he claimed to be me. After that, July chose to not show me any of the drawings he did next. He would mostly draw when I was asleep.

As I'm going through one sketch after the other, I feel my heart clench tighter and tighter as I view myself through the eyes of someone else, captured in vivid details.

Everything is there. Me standing barefoot on a rock under the Glenn waterfall, hands on my hair, shoulder blades portruding out of my naked back. Me holding baby Aurora in my lap while she sleeps in tranquility. Me sitting on a sofa in the living room of Tiara's home, one leg crossed over the other, eyes closed, a gentle smile on my face. Me sitting on a white chair inside grandpa's library shed, focused on a book in hand. Me carefully working on making candles. Me all polished up in a suit, hair parted on both sides, an eye mask covering the upper half of my face, a hand in my pocket.

Me sitting in a tiny bathtub, naked, hugging my knees to my chest, gaze lowered.

With each and every stroke of the pencil, he has bought me into life on these pages. He has shown me how I look in his eyes, and I discover that I look beautiful indeed. But what I find even more beautiful is the affection overflowing out of every particle of the graphite, as if every time his pencil touched the paper, his lips touched my skin. As if every time he completed a stroke, he completed a part of me that I never even perceived as incomplete.

These sketches might not show the real me, but they show the me who is loved deeply.

Tears well up in my eyes as I absorb the sheer magnificence of being the sole subject of someone's art. Someone's "muse", as artists like to call it. How did I become worthy of such privileges?

I lean my temple against the window of the train. The scenery outside is nothing more than a row of trees and a couple of humans here and there whishing past me. I catch my reflection on the window glass, finding my hair covering my forehead. I part the bangs to both sides to expose it. I was an idiot for ever considering myself unlucky.

Finally, I turn to the next and last sketch-filled page of this sketchbook. It was my request to the artist, and the artist obliged. Because I see in front of me a portrait of the boy I fell in love with, drawn by the boy himself. Perhaps some of the proprotions are a bit unmatched, and perhaps the shading isn't done as intricately as the previous ones due to lack of time. But it is, without a doubt, him in the sketch.

To be more precise, it is him through my eyes.

I take a deep breath and put the sketchbook aside, holding back the tears.

I take a few moments to recover, then pull out Norwegian Wood out of my bag. Hesitating a little once more, I open the book to the very last page, passing Acknowledgements and Other Works By This Author. The note is smaller than what I had hoped. Taking a moment to prepare myself, I start reading.

My dear Cedar,

There is a lot I still want to tell you, but I can't seem to find the words anymore. I have grown very weak somehow, and it's hard for me to write this. And since time and page are both limited, I will keep it short. This book was extremely hard for me to get through. Not because it was bad, but because it showed me, in great detail, how irreparable your suffering might be when I'm gone. This book is too overflowing with death. But I suppose that's how life is, isn't it? Facing one death after another, until it's time for our turn. Until we are forgotten. To live is to drown in a pool of death.

But Cedar, while you live, I hope you will always remember me. I don't want your memories of me to haunt you. You know how I always had a lot of irrational fears. In these final moments of my life, I have faced every one of those fears and defeated them. But one fear remains, and it is the fear of being remembered as someone's most painful past. I can't defeat this fear, so I leave it in your hands. Perhaps there will come a day when I will fade away from your mind. But until then, please remember me with fondness. Remember me through the songs I loved and through the second pillow on your bed. No matter where we reach after it's all over, I believe our souls will forever and evermore remain entangled.

To eternity,
your Dawn

I close the book, and then my eyes. The words I just read floats in my mind. Of course I will remember him. How can I ever forget someone I spent sixteen years of my life with, and singularly loved with my all? And of course in all my memories of him, he will be smiling, and it will be warm. He didn't leave much room for otherwise.

But then, another thought hits me: what about July?

How long will I remember him? The forty days with him might have felt like years. But at the end of the day, they were just forty days. And though it might seem like I know everything about him, I probably only know a tiny fraction of it all. Every time I want to remember him, I will pull out the sketchbook. But I will see myself there more than him. Maybe at some point, the image of his real self will be completely replaced by the black and white sketch. At a later point, perhaps that sketch would start to become distorted as well. And when it does, the July as I knew him would vanish forever.

Maybe this is exactly what he meant when he carved "Forever and nevermore" on the bark of the cedar tree. The impact July made in my life will stay for as long as I live. But his image, the image of my first love, won't stay solid for eternity. We had so less time together. Perhaps there really will come a day when I will forget how intensely my younger self had loved him.

And I won't be able to do anything to prevent that from happening.

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

When I get off the train, I see him waiting by the platform.

A massive wave of happiness washes over me, bringing tears to my eyes. There he is, the guy who became my friend under unique circumstances, holding his two-year old sister in his arms, watching people pour out of the train. I didn't ask him to come and get me from here, but he came anyway.

For a while, I stand still in my spot, watching him. I make an attempt to come in terms with the forthcoming reality. It feels distant, like a dream so out of bounds with the truth that it feels unreachable. But in actuality, what I was in back then was the dream, a dream that lasted several days instead of a few minutes, a dream I dreamt awake. And I have now been woken up by Time, to come face to face with the life that I was supposed to lead after Dawn's death-a life of emptiness.

But no, of course not, I quickly remind myself. This is not going to be the same life as the one I led for the nine months after Dawn. This is going to be a life I remember, because it's a life where things are slightly better than before. I can, finally, see the love people have for me, appreciate it, return it. I can finally find the courage to be more true to myself, to not let the uncertainty of the future hold me back from taking risks. I won't be lonely-not as much as before, at least-because I have gotten myself out of the circle. Perhaps I will enter more circles later on, but not for now. Now, I can walk in a straight line, move forward, to a future I can anticipate. Because it now contains the foamy white glow of the moonlight in a summer night. It contains a road where the distance between every lamppost is a little less than before. It contains books and new friends.

Perhaps it also contains a stable, happy family.

I have more than I could ask for, more than what most people get. Aren't these enough for me to go on, no matter how hard things become?

Without a doubt.

And so, a wide smile blooms on my face, as I scream his name with my whole chest amidst the crowd -"Edgar!!"

My friend swings his head back, and I laugh at the expression on his face. I see him mutter something to himself and know for sure it's a bunch of swear words. I run up to him, feeling so incredibly glad to see him here, because it's an assurance that he isn't merely a part of that long dream, but also the reality.

As soon as I reach him, he kicks my leg. I let out a yelp.

"Hey! Is this how you reunite with your best friend?" I protest.

"Best friend, my fucking ass." He kicks me again, harder this time. "Who the fuck do you think you are? Do you have any idea how much people were worried-"

"But I called you almost every-"

"Nerdy bastard. Selfish asshole. Lexi has reopened the literature club and found members too but they can't fucking start off 'cause she wants you to be the leader. Leader, my ass! She is been doing all the damn work! Heck, all the teachers and other classmates were worried that you're gonna end up doing some shit to yourself."

"Oh but I-"

"And don't even get me started with your weird-ass brother and his million times weirder boyfriend. The two of them ask me about you like I'm your fucking mother or some shit. Do they think I've nothing better to do. Do they think I have no life outside of Cedar Dickhead Lockwood. I'm losing my shit just looking at your goddamn face!"

I try to hold back my laugh. "Edgar-"

"You're laughing. You're fucking laughing! Do you have any idea what went through me for the past-" He can't compete the sentence because little Eve smacks his lips with her tiny palm.

Unable to hold it in, I burst into laughter. "Even your sister is done with you."

"Shut the fuck up." He points a finger at his sister. "How could you do that, huh? I'm literally raising you, you ungrateful bastard."

Then Eve begins to cry, or should I say, wail, drawing the attention of some of the people nearby. Edgar looks even more pissed while I keep laughing. He begins to cradle Eve gently while throwing me a death glare.

When she calms down, he says, "I swear to God, Cedar Lockwood, if you ever do shit like this again-"

"I won't. Don't worry." With that, I wrap my arms around him, hugging him tight.

"What the- what the- fuck dude, let me go!"

"Nopes."

"I said let me fucking go! People will think Eve is our adopted daughter or some shit."

I laugh but don't let go. Eve smacks the back of my head a couple of times, and I take it as a gesture of affection instead of an attempt to push me away from her brother. Edgar tries to free himself for a while but then stops with a loud groan and just lets me be.

"Edgar," I say, "let's be friends for a long time, okay?"

'Long time' is a phrase that lies somewhere between 'forever and evermore' and 'forever and nevermore', I realize. Because it is realistic, a period that is comprehensible to our minds. Forever itself has a limit. But 'long time' doesn't.

He doesn't reply immediately. I fear that it's a promise he is not willing to make, because he doesn't have that kind of trust in our friendship.

But then he says, in a voice so soft that it doesn't match the words he speaks, "In your fucking dreams, delusional bastard."

I smile. Knowing him, that is probably equivalent to saying, I will always be by your side.

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

The first thing I do after coming back home, is go visit Dawn.

When I reach his grave, I sit down in front of it, just like I had the day July first came into my life. It was in this place, that my forever and nevermore with him began.

"Dawn, it's been a while," I say.

I don't expect a reply, and none comes either.

"Your wish has been fulfilled. And all I can say is thank you for making this wish. I have learned so much over the past forty days. I have grown so much as a person. The thought of living doesn't feel like a burden anymore, nor does it feel pointless. And I've loved someone again. I think you would have approved of him."

A strong breeze flows by. I look up at the apple tree, which is now filled with apples, showing that a long time has indeed passed.

I look back at Dawn, and smile.

Dawn, I will live a good life for you. I will live my dreams and I will love the way you taught me to love. I will eat properly, sleep in time, and cry no more than 10 minutes at a stretch. I will live, and I will live long and healthy, I will live with gratitude, taking every second of breath as a gift someone else didn't get. I will live the way you wanted us to live. And I will live with you. I will keep you alive in this universe through my memories with you, my thoughts of you, and my words about you. And when I am in my deathbed, about to take my last breath, I will say your name through my lips-I will say the word "Dawn" and the image of your smiling face and emerald eyes will be the last image I will ever envision. And after I say goodbye to this world, I will come back here once again, under this apple tree, beside you, just like I always was, just like I'm meant to be.

I say none of these words out loud. Words like this can never translate to voice. They are mere whispers in my heart, and whispered words must never be heard by anyone but the one whispering and the one being whispered to. He is a part of my soul, occupying an irreplaceable spot on my flower table. Who else would hear it, if not for him?

I place the white roses in front of his gravestone. Then I read the three words written on top of it. Forever and evermore. The phrase doesn't seem like a childish fantasy anymore. Somewhere within me, I know, that I will keep silently loving Dawn till my last breath, and I will never love anyone this deeply again. And I also know, if I was the one under the ground and Dawn was the one sitting here in place of me, he would feel the exact same way.

After all, such is our bond.