Zubaidah Arshad

 

That was the problem, wasn't it? You left home. But you never did become an adult. Not really. You just fucked up in different and more complicated ways.

Almost. It slips off the tongue like a sigh, a word so small it shouldn't hold so much weight. But it does. It sits heavy in my chest, a stone lodged in the place where dreams used to bloom. I built my life on almosts, sturdy little houses made of "what ifs" and "maybes." Almost graduated top of my class, almost married the man who swore he'd love me forever, almost held a child in my arms. Each one a promise whispered on the wind, then snatched away like a cruel game. And the worst part? The worst part is how they steal your future. You get so caught up in the almosts, the shimmering mirages of what could have been, that you forget how to live in the present. You become a ghost in your own life, watching as real happiness dances past, just out of reach. Perhaps, almost is the saddest word there is.

It was an odd day. Maybe it was because the clouds looked different or because I wore mismatched socks. I’m not really sure. I stood in front of Shay, the room smelling slightly of old books and maybe a bit of lemon cleaner. Shay had a beard that seemed like it hadn’t been brushed for days, but it made him look interesting, not messy. It reminded me of the scruffy dog I once saw at the park. We were supposed to chat about usual things, maybe the new movie or the book I was reading. But my mouth had its own plan. I told Shay the biggest secret I had, the one that had been piling up inside me like lego bricks. The secret about how I felt about him. He looked surprised, like when someone gives you a present on a day that’s not your birthday. For a really long time, he just stood there. The old clock on the wall kept ticking, and a bird outside the window was singing, probably to another bird. Then, Shay finally talked. “You know, I always thought secrets were like lost socks. They’re hidd...

You make me happy, do you know that? How so? Your existence, your breath, your caramel hair against the morning sun, your porcelain skin against mine, your squinty eyes when you're being naughty, the way your fingers slowly crawl on my face.  What else? Your smile. Your perfect teeth. Your little dance in the kitchen. The way you stand. The way you walk. Little silly things you say when you have your first coffee of the day.  You make me happy too. How so? You. You by being you. You make me happy. 

  Even in the mud and scum of things, something always, always sings.