March 21, 2016

You have always been here, even when I forgot to look for you.

When I was younger, you stood between me and the people I loved. We only saw each other once a year, maybe less. A scattering of meetings across years, thin as dust on an unused table. Most of the time we spoke through phones, our language compressed into text messages. And somehow, you became familiar to me—a quiet companion, almost invisible, woven into the fabric of my life.

But a few years ago, I left you. I came home and lived with my father. I fell in love and lived with my partner. The space between me and others collapsed; I could breathe them in every night. It was new. It was safe. It made me believe I no longer needed you.

Two years later, I was on a plane to Singapore. Mid-August, carrying nothing but one suitcase and some tired electronics—the kind of departure you tell yourself is about building a future. At Changi, I convinced myself I was fine. You’ve been away from people all your life. You’re good at this. I repeated those words until they sounded like truth.

I remembered how, back in university, I chose to study in China without knowing why. Maybe to test my own endurance. It was hard. Loneliness came to dull the pain, and in that dullness I found a strange kind of comfort. You were there.

Now, I sit on a bus in Singapore. The city hums with new friendships, promising work, the faint scent of being loved. And yet, the water rises—loneliness flooding all of it. I realise I have to call you back. Let you take your place beside me, as you always have.

Distance, my oldest friend.

I have avoided you, replaced you, even tried to live without you. But here you are, inevitable as the goodbyes and arrivals that live through me. Teach me again how to sit with you. Teach me how to be strong without filling the silence with noise. Because I know now, you were never the enemy. You were the witness after all this time.

The space in which I could hear myself, and breathe.