Untitled by Carys Hirawady

When the path clears of obstacles, I look up, and she’s different now. Taller. Dressed in plainer clothes. Her hair is loose save for a headband No more pigtails or braids. Smiling doesn’t seem to come so easily to her anymore. Her eyes are the same shade of deep brown as before, but the sparkle in them is gone. They’re only dull and dark now. “Then why do you do it?” She walks with a permanent hunch in her shoulders and her hands hiding in her pockets. “Has Dad given you that book about the ten thousand hours rule?” “Yeah, is it true?” “I don’t know, but I’m already eight thousand hours into writing. Can’t stop now.” “I get that.” She keeps glancing back at me and we fall into step beside each other. I recognize her. We are much more the same than the joyful girl she came to me as. There’s still ten years left between us rather than fifteen. Those five years left quite a few scars. “Do you still like books?” I ask. I look at the path ahead. Not at her. I know she’s more comfortable that way. “I love them. All I do is read.. I failed a math test by rushing through it just so I could finish the book under my desk.” I can hear her smile. I laugh. “Right! I remember that! It was so worth it.” I try to stay upbeat. I know she needs that from me. Already we’re trading places. Maybe one day I’ll be like she was again. “What obsesses you?” Right. This was the era of being eaten alive by stories. Consuming them like a starving creature before I was taken over by muses I seem to have already lost.

“School. I’ve almost got my Bachelor’s. But I want to get published in the next five years.”

“So you don’t do music?” I can’t hear her smile anymore. She sounds heartbroken. I understand. Sometimes I feel choked by the grief of taking this turn too. “No. I still love it. But I couldn’t be forced to do it.” I look back at her. She’s grown again. She’s my height. But she isn’t as broad. The skin of her arms is still unmarked by ink. Her face is still hairless and splotched with acne. Her hair is a long train of frizz she doesn’t yet know can be curls. Only a few years separate us now. She still stands with that hunch in her shoulders. I can’t remember when I stopped carrying such a heavy invisible weight around with me.

We reach a fork. And she stops. I stop a few feet ahead of her. She’s still right in the middle, equally committed and uncommitted to our two potential paths in life. I’m off to the right, already having chosen. It’s why I bear a bag of journals and not a guitar case.

“That’s where we’re going, right?” She walks to my side again. And we easily fall into step with each other. “Adulthood is just being forced to do more.” The dark circels under her eyes and exhausted rasp in her voice, just now cracking and dropping low like mine, make put an arm around her. I remember her well enough to touch her. For her to be real to me. And I feel as connected to her through her misery as I feel sorry for her. “Yes and no.” I hug her as best as I can without tripping over our feet. “What are you up to now? Still a bookworm?” I ask.