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Crack the Ice What do you do when your partner’s mental health is plummeting, and they don’t acknowledge it? How do you come from a place that doesn’t appear selfish? He’s your classic suffer in silence type, and a lot of the time for no reason. He’ll drive an hour without the heating on even though he’s cold, he won’t fix the sock that’s fallen off inside his shoe, he won’t sort out the inconveniences in his life. When it comes to the bigger stuff, he deals with it by keeping his cards close to his chest and insisting that “everything is gravy”. Spoiler: everything was not gravy. I feel lucky that I know him well enough to be able to read his subtext, but I must always remember to tread carefully on the line between being pushy and not giving a fuck so that I don’t crack the ice. Don’t crack the ice; do anything to preserve the ice. He’s usually a fairly positive and relaxed guy, the total opposite of me – which I adore. So, when he’s feeling low, which isn’t often but can last a while, I don’t always know what to do. I panic in those moments and want to express my feelings without making it about me. Even now, writing this, I feel like I’m making it out to be my problem, but I just worry about him so intensely sometimes. I learned one of his triggers by accident, which lead to an unexpected conversation involving some hard truths. “Shut up.” He said, after I told him something he didn’t want to hear. Immediate regret in his eyes as he assured me that he didn’t mean it, he just doesn’t like being told he isn’t coping. Worried for him to drink when he’s low because it makes him so much worse but worried more about saying anything because I don’t want to come across as controlling. The next morning; “Oh, I’m fine! I was just being melodramatic”. He doesn’t fool me. It has the appearance of male ago, but I know that he’s just scared. He has an incredibly big heart and cares so much about his career and the people he affects that he’s terrified of letting everyone down.
You pick your moments. I knew I was going to have to force a conversation because he definitely wasn’t going to bring it up or ask for help. It’s important to figure out if they want solutions or just to be listened to. He needed reminding that I’m there to listen to anything and everything he wants to say, and that’s what I did. Encourage but don’t push, and maybe the ice will begin to thaw. Even when you think you know someone so well, there’s still so much to learn about them. Just by communicating properly, I now know that by giving him more time to process his own feelings, he will be able to be open about them with me. My immediate attack approach wasn’t working because once again, we are just not the same. I know it’s a temporary fix, and that I won’t be able to shape myself into all the help he needs. But, if he feels he can come to me when he feels himself slipping down, then I know it’s working. Maybe it’s okay if the ice starts to crack.
By Violet Payne
THREE STROKES before midnight By Natalie Chan STROKE I: Water flushes into Mi Young’s ears, engulfing her as she trudges, mindlessly, to the edge of the pool. Her head sinks into the water, occasionally rising back to the surface for respite, catching her breath with a shallow gasp. A whistle blows, sharp soprano dulled by the water in her ears. Her fingers clutch the porcelain tiles. “I’m not seeing an improvement with your time.” Mi Young emerges from the water, clutching onto Coach Carter’s wrist for support. Her hair dangles off the sides of her face as Mi Young takes in the pungent, familiar scent of chlorine, swimming cap clutched tightly in her grip. “Sorry.” Her eyes remain glued to the water, watching the other swimmers as the water crashes and tugs against their limbs, ruthless, yet gentle. “I’ve been busy.” Abigail, her uniform messily tucked into her skirt, makes her way over, pressing a bottle of water into Mi Young’s hands. “Here’s a drink. Good work today!” Mi Young thanks Abigail, hand lingering on hers, before turning back to Coach Carter, the bottle crinkling under the weight of her fingers. Unbeknownst to her, within the locker room, her phone continues ringing, incessantly, as it had been for the past hour. She listens to the pool water as it pounds against the pale navy tiles, singing its melancholic hum before slamming her palm to her temples, flushing it out of her ears. STROKE II: Abigail swipes the rag across the bench, wiping it clean. The natatorium is empty now, the nowabsent chatter of swimmers enveloping the area in a harsh wave of calm. A locket, sitting in between the cracks of the faux wood bench, glistens under the dull yellow lights. She picks it up, the chain dangling between her fingers. ‘MY MI YOUNG’, it writes, engraved in bold upon the ochreous metal. “Oh!” Risa snatches it out of Abigail’s palm, observing it closely. “This must be Mi Young’s. Allan gave it to her recently. Really sweet, that guy.” “Allan?”
“Mi Young’s boyfriend. They’ve known each other for a while now, but they only got together recently.” She hands it back to Abigail, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “Just hand that to her tomorrow, I’m sure she’ll appreciate it.” Abigail presses it to her chest, feeling the sharp chill of its metal against her skin. She glances up at Risa, suddenly overwhelmed with a need to hide, cower, as if she’d been keeping a filthy secret, the locket feeling like taboo in her hands. An invasion of something, though she’s not yet sure of what it could be. “Well, thanks for helping me clean up around here. I’ll see you tomorrow.” And thus, Abigail is left in the locker room, empty, but not truly alone. She clasps the locket, steel etching into her skin, as the clock ticks, rhythmically, behind her. STROKE III: It’s near midnight when she returns, locket shoved hastily into the pocket of her coat. From within, the water pulses and patters against the surface. Abigail skids to a stop, entranced as Mi Young emerges from the water, the faint glow of moonlight painting stripes of gray along her pale complexion. Her eyes dart over to Abigail, widening in surprise. “Hello, stranger.” Mi Young floats towards the pool wall, resting her face against the tiles. “What are you doing here this late?” Abigail bites her lip. Silently, as if possessed, she rummages through her pocket, pulling out the locket. Mi Young nods in response, gesturing for Abigail to sit by the pool. She walks over, careful to not slip, dipping her feet into the water, feeling relaxation wash over her, a stray wave. Mi Young loops her arm along the pool ladder, her head pressed back against the wall, sighing in resignation. “Do you know who gave me this locket?” Before Abigail can bring herself to answer, Mi Young interrupts her, eyes glossed over with mist, looking up at the bleached, mottled ceiling. “Allan. My boyfriend. It was all so simple before he gave this to me, last week. It was all so simple until he asked me to date him.” She fiddles with the locket. “I wonder if he thought about how I’d feel about it all.” Abigail, the words choking out of her throat, watches Mi Young as her hair tangles and curls under the water. “Do you…not like him?” “I liked him. Just not in the way he likes me.” She groans. “He just had to do it all in public too. I can’t believe he even got me a locket.” She buries her head in her hands. “I cannot believe he even got me a locket. What was I supposed to do?”
They stay silent for a moment, and then another, feeling the pads of their fingers wrinkle, waiting for time to slither past the rusted steel bars, into the poolside drain. Mi Young clutches Abigail’s hand, drifting further into the pool, the water nearly swallowing her whole. “Abigail. Swim with me?” The clock strikes midnight. But Abigail knows better. Knows that if she accepts this invitation, knows that if she takes Mi Young’s hand, follows her into the water, it’ll all change between them. She’ll fully be drawn into Mi Young’s world, into Mi Young’s heart. She knows that. “It’s late.” Mi Young blinks. “It’s late. I’ll see you tomorrow. Remember to lock up.” Mi Young sinks back into the water, locket in hand. In the morning, she’ll apologise to Allan for not picking up his calls. She’ll kiss him on the cheek, and she’ll follow him to bed. She’ll swim in the pool for hours upon hours, Abigail keeping track on a stopwatch as she beats her record time and time again. In the morning, nothing will change, but so will everything around her. So will she. But for now, she floats along the edge of the pool, letting the night engulf her whole. For now, she will be happy.
I hope you fall in love with love. I hope you fall in love with staring at the sky for hours on end, perhaps contemplating the stars, or just observing the clouds, blushing at the warm glow of the Sun. I hope you fall in love with seeing the waves crash and shaping those merciless rocks, and I hope you fall in love with the countless sunsets; each one, unique. I hope you fall in love with the soft spatter of raindrops on your bedroom window, seldom waking you up, just to gaze at another sunrise. I hope you fall in love with sniffing the sweet fragrance of flowers, and I hope you fall in love with the mere flutter of the butterflies’ wings, as they perch themselves upon those tender clutters of flowers. I hope you fall in love with reading books and underlining your favourite lines, and I hope you fall in love with talking to strangers and asking them if they if they believe in God. I hope you fall in love with experiences; travelling the world like you’ve always wanted to, filling those void passport pages with stamps of all the countries you’ve wanted to go to, spending sleepless nights outside, and dreamy evenings inside, sipping on coffee with your best friends. I hope you fall in love with yourself. How your cheeks turn pink when you blush, and how your eyes shine auburn in the soft evening sunshine. I hope you fall in love with the way you smile from ear to ear when your most favourite song plays first as you turn the car radio on. And I hope you fall in love with people. How your best friend calls you just to ask how your day was, and how your mom never forgets to ask you if you’ve eaten yet. How some people do things just to bring a smile upon your face, with the sole purpose of being able to see you happy. I hope you fall in love with love. Love. Because isn’t that what we’re here for after all? ~muskan kaur
Anaphora as a Frantic Effort to Avoid Abandonment after Hera Lindsay Bird I feel it in my hail-spattered umbrella I feel it in my Keith Haring joggers I feel it in my hair blowing through technicolour wind I feel it in my essay on how to play hide-and-seek with a robot vacuum I feel it in my inability to crack jokes in waiting rooms I want to quarantine my whole life with you I feel it in my hair blowing through technicolour wind in slow motion now what if my scalp is a black mirror what if you are the demon of seasonal dandruff what if I love you so much it gives me alopecia I want to quarantine with you at an iPhone clinic I want to quarantine with you in the cool room of a butcher’s shop even if raw meat makes me gag and I look like Guillermo del Toro under LED lights I want to quarantine with you even when you eat zwieback with mayo You’re the only face I’d custom print on a cereal box You’re the only cereal box I’d pee on if I were a cat You’re the only cat I’d break into the neighbour’s house for You’re the only neighbour I’d give a kidney to You’re the only kidney I need
The poet: Italo Ferrante earned a BA in English Literature and Creative Writing from the University of Warwick. He is currently undertaking an MA in Creative Writing at Lancaster University. To date, his work has been published by Train River, Nymphs & Thugs, Orchard Lea Press, Reinvention, The Initial Journal, and Kamena Magazine.
by Enola