Trigger Warning: themes of death
There’s an old pine chest of drawers in your bedroom that I’ve always loved. It’s past its prime, falling apart and covered in rainbow paint splatters from years of redecorations and flourishes of your ‘artistic moments’. The handles are mismatched and there’s a deep scuff on the left bottom panel of one of the drawers that won’t go away. It happened when you kicked it in frustration because that girl you really liked broke up with you. That was the first time I saw you cry, your hot salty tears soaking my jumper sleeve. Looking at its frame now makes me remember the first time I met you. Like the chest, something about you just caught my eye. I didn’t know it then but it would only take twelve conversations, five of which happened on the phone for me to realise I wanted you to matter to me.
Over the years we shared so much in front of that decrepit crafted wood. Like how I told you that before I knew you that I’d assumed your grey personality was more suited to that of a devoted introvert who’d been forced into the thralls of society. But then I got to know you. You, a paradoxical human being, but not in an arrogant or cutting way, someone who was cathartic to be around because of your proclivity for being inexorably honest. I sensed then I would like you, no love you. You got to know me, and told me I was warm, but not as garishly as the sun. More like a summer evening, where the breeze just nips at your fingertips or ruffles your hair slightly. I couldn’t muster the vehemence to be as bright as the sun but I was flushed enough to thaw through a layer of ice. The ice being you, the unassuming boy who would have no doubt gone unnoticed tethered to the edges of invisibility.
Its creaky drawers hold more memories than clothes. Ones like when we would spend nights by the bonfire at the back of your house toasting marshmallows and licking the sugar from our fingers till we felt sick and the temperature dipped dangerously low. You’d grab one of your sweaters and give it to me to use as shelter from the midnight chill. It would smell like your cologne, leaving a lingering scent on my skin long after I’d discarded it in the corner of your bedroom. It holds reminders of late afternoons spent on lukewarm autumn days bundled together laughing, talking about nothing in particular yet everything. I liked watching your face as you laughed, the way you let your guard drop, just for a split second. It always fascinated me. In a similar way that the most thought-provoking book or the brightest night sky could. You always had that effect on people, they would get mesmerised by you.
Its antique crevices contain the whisperings of every one of our conversations. Like when you told me all the little things that make you happy; the taste of coffee on a cold misty day, white noise in the middle of the night when the world is asleep, the feeling of raindrops on your skin, the smell of the air at dawn or after a thunderstorm, the darker colours of wet streets, night breezes, woolly jumpers on midwinter afternoons, banana pancakes. The list was endless. You had these endless lists, probably even made lists of all the lists you had.
The venerable pine’s chipped varnish reminds me of 3am, having deep conversations while staring up at the ceiling, or into mugs of coffee, or at hands because it was easier. Easier in some cases than looking into each other's eyes. I could always find the warmth in your rain-cloud ones even when they were particularly stormy. Sometimes in those moments I hoped staring at my coffee might give me the answers to life’s greatest problems. The same way fortune-tellers did with the residue at the bottom of a finished teacup. Mugs drained we would find ourselves watching the night sky. Not because we loved the darkness or the stars, but simply because it was the only time the earth was still. The one moment the world actually seemed quiet. You told me it was your favourite time of day. Between midnight and daybreak. When the sky has just enough of the night left that it's dark but just enough of the morning that you can see the promise of a new day.
Above the chest, there’s a window with chipping paint around the frame and a rusting metal latch that lets you look at the vast expanse of ocean just beyond our reach. You’d hung a fading dream catcher on it, once a deep vibrant blue it had turned turquoise from the sun. If you know where to look on the horizon you can see the beach melting with sky. Conjuring memories of hot winds, sunburnt cheeks, permanent freckles and a push to always be near the water. Sand between our toes from golden summers and tummy-ache burning from laughing too hard. Reminding me of rock pooling and bruised knees from slippery seaweed. Reminding me of you.
Your room is a visual representation of the inner workings of your head. A bookshelf that isn’t quite tall enough to reach the ceiling, with enough space at the top to collect dust, containing row upon row of well-loved books, ranging from literary classics to new age science fiction, each spine bent and worn. You told me you wanted to become a writer, you’d been working on a story for a long time, but you wouldn’t let me read it till it was finished. I still haven’t. Shelves that are too high for me to reach. One, home to a collection of vintage records. I can see the one that was playing when you told me you fantasised slow-dancing in the kitchen, barefoot at 2am in pyjamas, in the arms of your lover, with an old jazz song playing softly on a beaten-up vintage radio. I wonder if you ever did end up doing that…
More shelves house random ornaments, keepsakes, and photo frames. One picture catches my eye. It’s of us from your nineteenth birthday. We were tipsy on cherry wine and made a bonfire on the beach. You’ve got your arm around my shoulders and I’m looking up into your eyes while the curls that fall upon your forehead cast shadows in the flickering of the fire. It was your favourite photo of us. Both looking sun-kissed from hours spent outside in the dewy spring and flushed from the light of the flames and dusk sun.
There are posters, pasted on your wall, surrounded by polaroids and scattered ticket stumps. It’s a makeshift pin-board of the last few years of your life. I feature heavily, we feature heavily. Together. From unflattering angles to memories of blooming summers and salty waves. It’s a map of friendship.
Yet of all the things to look at, my eyes and heart still linger on that old pine chest of drawers.
If furniture could talk, the stories that veteran pine chest would tell would make my cheeks burn blushed copper. Like when you hosted the last party of summer and your friends mixed with mine. The warm haze and smuggled vodka made us a drunker than we realised at the time. A blonde boy suggested we play spin the bottle, because he wanted to kiss me but didn’t have to courage to ask me out. But you kissed me, not him. Alcohol being a favourable excuse.
It would tell stories of near-missed chances and full-missed opportunities. All the moments I could have opened up like one of your many well-loved novels. You once claimed you could read me like a book. I guess you just missed a major plot point. It makes me glad furniture is mute. Because I’m sure it’s a lot more observant than you were; always blissfully oblivious. Unlike the smudged ones on the chest, your fingerprints will never fade from my life. If I concentrate hard enough now it’s like I can still feel your presence on my skin, just a ghostly light touch.
Of all the places I want to think of you, think of us, I wish it wasn’t here, standing in front of the chests impaired structure. I know without it the room would be incomplete. It looks like it belongs. It needs to be there. Just like you need to be here. I allow a fleeting second to wonder if anyone noticed me slip past the sea of black-clothed acquaintances. Grief spread across my face like a slap to the cheek. Because now I have to stand here and look at an old pine chest of drawers instead of your face to remind me of our memories.
Heartbreak and hindsight are extraordinarily cruel, because I told you I loved that chest of drawers, but I never told you.
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