Destiny

Chapter I

A slim, calloused finger traced the outline of the silverish, metallic rosary while the other palmed it gently. It is just so cold, he thought. He spaced out looking at that thin cross so carefully held in the creases of his palm; his sight boring through the rosary in a way that showed he was looking at something beyond the corporeal object. A shiver trembled down his spine and emotions flooded him, blurring his vision. So much memories. So much pain.

But it subsided quickly. Emotions had become something foreign to him since a long time ago. He was already numb to them; numb to their influence, numb to their qualia. He was like a stone gargoyle worn down with age, corroded by the whims of nature yet standing stolid and strong, with glassy eyes that expressed no sign of life, impassive to the world around him. Emotions were like the vines that crept around him. They, without their sustenance, will surely wither and die; the dust from their decay swept off with any gentle zephyr that comes.

He completed tracing the silhouette of the rosary with the sensitive tip of his fingers. It was exactly like he remembered it, though the signs that age was catching up to it became increasingly apparent. It was a simple crucifix. A polished cross with curvatures at each of its end to accentuate its holiness and grace. Then, laid upon it, a solid black cross, a smaller replicate of the former. To show that evil exists, but He, the Light, will encompass it, so endure misery and live strong! She had said it then with so much conviction and naivete that he could barely manage to conceal his snigger. A fact that naturally didnt escape her notice, with her full array of genial pinches and prodding. He managed a wry smirk now, one tinged with bitter irony and melancholy. The rosary was held by a chaplet, supposedly blessed, but evidently, that didnt do much good. The string attached had been frayed and subsequently hurriedly tied up by an untidy bowline knot. He proceeded to caress the cross, feeling the typical metallic coldness in his soft, warm palms. So, so cold. He closed his palms, covering the entire cross and demurely closed his eyes. Tilting his head upwards to inhale the fresh night air, in a posture that appeared oddly as if he was trying hard not to drown into the ocean of memories, he let off a sigh that felt as heavy as the leaded linen he had been carrying on his broad but wearied shoulders all these while.

Chapter II

The trees swayed in unison with the soft, soothing sea breeze that sifted through his ruffled hair. He smiled serenely to himself. He had liked that. That feeling as the wind caressed his face lovingly, brushing it gently. He liked that brief union with Nature. How the wind made his hair unkempt; how they seem to be in interlocking embrace, cradling him, protecting him. How time slowed to a crawl there. The freedom and peace of being away from civilisation, being in intimate interaction with quiet, omniscient, soothing Nature. It was solace from the vicissitudes of life. Nature, indeed, is a sanctuary. One in which time seems to stunt, allowing him to live, for once, in his own pensive world.

He heard the waves crash against the clump of rocks once more, creating a barricade of foam along the shore. Then it subsided, sweeping away any remnants of the living ever being there. The scuttling claw marks of the sea crab, the sunken footsteps of sea gulls, the depressions made by the tolling sea turtles; all washed away with each passing wave, leaving a pristine, smooth, flat bed of sand, untouched and preserved in all its natural, unsoiled splendour. In its never ending toil, the waves started its cycle of creation again; ripples gathering in speed and strength, until full-fledged waves roar into contention.

He was sitting atop the precipice that stood strong against the ever rolling waves. Eyes closed, he savoured the experience of being there, inhaling all the sounds and smells of the area. It was his favourite spot in the entire beach. The place was secluded, untainted by the ills of irresponsible joggers or the vices of rowdy beach-goers. And that was because this plot of sanctuary was separated from the mainland by a worthy stretch of water, and who wanted to get wet just to reach across a forgotten clump of sand and soil? In addition, the perimeter of his little paradise was boarded up by wayward trees. He had stumbled upon this magical space by accident. Stalking a furry rabbit that was completely out-of-place in this habitat, he bashed through the thicket of trees, until he chanced upon a thin, snaking trail that led him there. The coincidental chancing of that lonely Eden seemed pre-destined.

To him, the panorama was even more exhilarating at night. The nocturnal solitude embellishes the atmosphere with added veils of repose and security. The mellowing hue of orange splashed across the shade of night blueness juxtaposed the invigorating quietness with a soft calmness. The cool, crisp night air galvanises his soul, stirring it; evicting all secular thoughts and bridges his link with his emotions. Allowing the attainment of epiphany that would other elude him in the hustle and bustle of daily rituals. Quaint cosmic constellations pock the shaded skies, bestowing an augmented nuance of bewitchment into the already magical place. Here, he is at peace with himself and most importantly, here, he enjoys the rare punctuated period of tranquility that was deprived from his life.

And here, he met her. The reason 'the place' became 'The Place'. It was one of those memories that time couldnt possibly erode nor corrupt. It was etched in his mind with piercing perspicacity. That fateful night, he came back to The Place, his apt mimick of the acclaimed Fortress of Solitude, to bask in the purity and innocence that fumigate the entire area. Deep in meditation, a sudden rustling in the bushes nearby punctured and truncated his thoughts. An intruder, he panicked, without knowing why. He stuttered and nosily rose from his throne of rocky outcrop. A murky, svelte shadow emerged from the vegetation bringing along a mildewy, grassy scent, a face masked by the empowering darkness of the night. Both strangers could sense each other's nervousness in the numbing silence. Then, in acquiescence, the hostility ended in tacit agreement. It was as if the flurry of emotions were guided by an unseen hand, a set of tenet that bounds all who steps into The Place. An evergreen, lasting set of rules impressed upon by the unblemished beauty of this little piece of peace - that no ugly emotions nor actions should ever come to ruin the pulchritude.

"H...hhe...". He clamoured to release the tangled mess of words stuck in his throat. The same way solitude emboldened him, company made him awkward. "Hi! Wow! I didnt know someone else knew this spot," a crystalline, alluring voice cut across the void, accompanied by a sweet, tingling chuckle. It was a voice that could crumble inhibitions. One that had a quality which sounded like it could dispel xenophobia with just a cordial laughter; one that inspires trust. Yet, his ears flushed. The vocals distinctively belonged to a girl. And he, for one, was terribly shy of them. That was a trait fostered by the lack of interactions with females and the unfamiliarity of chaste niceness.

If it was even possible, he flushed even harder. His heart was beating so hard he felt sure it would jump out of its cavity at any instance. Thump.. Thump.. The buzz and cackle of the crickets and other nocturnal critters dimmed as his raging heartbeat took prominence. Now, not only was his words knotted, his stomach started to cringe from his jitters. To his horror, she drew closer. "Are you okay?" Flustered, he took a step back and promptly tripped over a jagged shard of rock that protruded invitingly.

His next recollection was that of a presence tending over him. By reflex, he flailed his arms, slapping her face with the back of his hand. The first time she was hurt because of him. Unperturbed, she continued examining the laceration using a silver of moonlight that slipped through the foliage, but not after mockingly chastise him with a melodramatic tsk and a furrowing of brows. That she possessed a gentle aura that promulgated kindness and tranquility did not escape his senses. Suddenly, geniality washed past him and his guard broke down completely, an atypical occurence.

Another tingling giggle, like the striking of chimes.

"There! Now you'll be fine!" she cooed softly, offering a tone that betrayed no nuance of condescension; a sisterly show of sincere concern. Then a thought sprang up in his mind. He hasnt said a single word yet. Not wanting to deign a conversation after the display of benevolence, he stuttered, "H..Hhe.." Apparently, his bashful side still stood strong despite the barrage of measured attacks against it. Presumably, his aversion was blatant, even if his countenance was veiled by the clouding night. She thought deeply, and appeared to purse her lips. Then, without warning, she leaned forward and put a finger vertically his gaping mouth. He could feel the warmth radiating from her body. And a refreshing scent of wildflowers emanate from her. Her hair. He flushed beetroot once more.

It was a meaningful sign. That there wasnt a need for words. Not now. In the darkness, he barely made out a vision of her taking her finger off and pointing to the rolling waves lapping at the unwavering rocks. She offered her other hand, palms completely laid out. Lore has it that such an action was to prove that the person was unarmed and thus had no malice. And indeed, he could feel the earnestness of that outstretched hand. He took it. Compared to his rough, unfeeling hands, hers was soft, caring. Thump...

She led him towards the edge of the cluster of rocks while he wobbled and grimaced in discomfort. There, they sat in mutual silence, eyes fixated on the view spread around them. The moon lolled freely in the shrouding night sky, conspicuously like a stage light, focusing all stray attention on it. Another draft gushed by, laced with the balmy, salty taste of sea water. He sat precariously at the edge, legs swaying loosely. She sat cross-legged near the edge. She was humming a lulling tune, eyes sparking; basking in the atmosphere. He had his eyes closed, carrying an expression of deep mulling. An odd couple that met in the oddest of circumstances, both cloaked under the veneer of being strangers and the night.

His remembrance blurred and became sketchy at this point.

He awoke to the radiant glare of the brimming sun enveloping him, with the familiar pounding of waves in the background. He groaned as he tried to summon the strength to move his limbs; the constant bellowing of the sea breeze made his joints sore and creaking. Im gonna have one hell of a rheumatism when I grow old, he thought. After protracted exertion, he managed to sit up and a clump of leaves fell from his body, leaving crumbling dirt and dried pieces of leaves clinging to his body. What the... ... His eyelids flickered as he contrived to open his eyes. He winced at the snap pain and squelched his eyes, forming a fan of radiating creases. By the next time he tried, his iris had sufficiently contracted to make the process more manageable. It was then he noticed his throbbing pain in his head, as if someone was pounding him with boxing gloves. Fighting back the fallago of pain, grogginess and lethargy in the labyrinth of his mind, he tried to piece back fragments of last night's details together. Trickles of recollection seeped down first, then like the opening of floodgates, a deluge of fresh memories cascaded. With a start, he swept through the area, eyes ravenously gobbling up details of shades and shadows, slight movements and motions. Upending every pebble, swooping down every nook and cranny; like a sinker cast into the sea, his heart unwittingly sunk.

She was gone.


Chapter III

Still clasping the cross in his palms, he gathered a decade's worth of regret, guilt and sorrow. Then with one torturous breath, let it all out like the dumping of an anvil. He dragged himself to a mirror perched atop his mahogany dresser and peered in. Normally, he doesnt even have the gut to look at his own reflection. This time, he ventured deeper. Resisting his own reflex to turn away, he saw a great many things. He saw the sunken, sallowed cheeks. The jaded lips. The drooping ears. The slight frown drawn across his forehead. The enlarging nostrils as they laboured to suck in air. He saw a thin line stretch across his lower lips, scars from the aftermath of repeated brutality; stitched over and over again and he had this impression of fraying lines holding what's left of his lips intact. And more importantly, when he glanced upon his own hollow eyes, he saw everything that happened that fateful day, replaying agonisingly like a motion picture in the back of his head.

The countless times after that day, when he went back to his private retreat, his eyes always had an irrepressible urge to scrutinise for any signs of anyone being there recently - subtle imprints in the sand, snapped twigs or even the warm breath of a human being. And while he never outwardly admitted to himself, he felt this chasm that existed within him whenever his search turned up nought. Somehow, his sanctum felt like it was missing an important piece of furniture; a missing washer in the whole contrivance. But still, he came back. Daily, weekly, fortnightly; whenever he needed the escape. He sat ponderously on that very spot he sat that night; in that Kodak picture-perfect scene with the icy gusts bellowing at his hair, stinging his eyes shut with their saltiness. And he sat through the night that seemed much much longer than usual.

There was once he'd asked himself why this lonely ritual persisted. It began when he first set his sight upon that place. Simply put, it was attraction at first sight. Slipping out of his jumper, he had dived headlong into the clammy seas, battling the stubborn current to crawl up the rocky steps that led to a god-forsaken island. It had appeared wild on the outside, and definitely inhabitable, with thorny vines spraying across the chaotic spread of tree branches, something that reminded him of a bona fide Christmas tree. Inching through the dense flora, he emerged to a slight clearing that he now knew so well. There, he sat in stolid silence, mesmerised by the resplendent view before him. As the scenery etched itself in his mind - an evergreen moment - he let himself melt into the panorama, merging, like an oil painting, into its shades and hues. The next time he got up on his feet, he decided there and then, that this place should never be soiled by his inapt handling, that he will not return to spoil its natural beauty again.

But he never could keep away. And he never knew why. True, the allure of that solemn grounds was immense. But similar pockets of land that possess such qualities literally dot the little island of Singapore as well. So why here, where it was so far off from his own locality that it brought so much trouble and effort just to go there? And that is why this place was perfect.

He grew up in a rather salacious district. The mazy alleyways that seemed to stretch infinitely into nothingness was where he spent a huge portion of his childhood in. Its familiarity, which stemmed from hours of Tag and animal chasing, comforted him. And there, he was blooded, forcibly introduced to the unforgiving nature of living and the pains and ills that rushed out of Pandora's box to afflict this world. The first time he was mugged, he was barely old enough to carry anything more than a bus fare's worth. And that was sufficient reason to be set upon by a ravenous pack of ruffians prowling, sniffing out fear and weakness like real hounds. Sometimes, he would wake up in the midst of a rousing sleep to find himself breaking out in silvery cold sweat. He would be puzzled about his current predicament, only to see that sneer again, a pair of crooked set of teeth shining in the dark alleyways like a Cheshire cat grinning from ear to ear. Then, he would solemnly lay his head back down on his pillow again and try to sleep, fists balled up and shivering. Shivering with reflex fear and conviction, a conviction kept alive by the reminiscence of his promise to himself, to grow stronger, to be stronger, so that he won't ever capitulate again.

Slowly, he was introduced to deeper, more sinister evils of that district. One which harboured clandestine gangs with their gothic rites, powder peddlers with their shifty paranoid eyes, blatant prostitutes with their flirtatious winks and whatnot. Those vices that seemed to be mere accounts of television took a more real role, now that he experienced it in higher definition. In this part of the world, where reason took a bystand, and kindness was mercilessly trampled upon, he grew scars. Scars plastered across his body, always healing but never really healing; and scars tearing across his soul. Convention wisdom has fallen and in its place, a newer, more realistic paradigm took over the reins - one that took precedence in survival. There were fights; fist fights strewn across the passageways, provoked by the bruising of egos and the scrapping of elbows, street fights, a no-holds barred free-for-all by hordes of mindless hoodlums. And then there was the full-blown gang fights, something which still send a shudder down his spine whenever he thought about it. In short, life was tough. He had his share of cuffs and knockouts, but he held on. Surviving on ruthless egoism and cunning manipulations, he learned to be cold and mercenary; to be wise to the ways of this mocking, unforgiving world. For all its worth, it brought along countless complications that maybe he would have regretted in time to come.















Chapter IV

He squinted in the moon-shy darkness at his worn out scabs, spoils from yet another day of senseless clobbering. It was getting bothersome and tiring. He scrambled up to his feet and wheeled in the opposite direction to begin his slow trudge back. His subconscious, which was perennially on alert for any presence , or rather her presence, was just about to give up when his olfactory organs picked out a soft, faint scent of almond wafting in the air. He shook his head violently, as if he was trying to displace a physical irritation lodged into his brain, a tangible manifestation of hope so closely tied to that almond scent. Then suddenly, like a smack in the back of his head, he inhaled the intense tangy concoction of almond and wildflowers which heralded her royal foray into the Place. He immediately perked up and inadvertently went crimson in reaction to his own action. He glanced to the sky quickly, then turned his attention to the hooded figure who came, but not before noticing the glimmering raw agates which pocked the cloudless night sky.

That she was dripping wet was pretty much evident to him, judging by the soft thumps made on the spongy soil. Guess she didnt have anything to change out of then, when she made the swim over, he thought. To his bewilderment, a drenched turtleneck draped over her slender, shivering body while a snug-looking pair of Levi's denim hugged her legs, its colour darkened by the moisture trapped within. That is definitely not appropriate attire to be wet in, he shuddered as he imagined how cold she is feeling now. However, it wasnt the state of her outfit that rooted him to the ground. She was whimpering, crying softly to herself. Clearly distressed, she wobbled unstably towards him, sniffling along the way in a gallant attempt to hold the waterworks. Seeing her in such a state, he, the hardened dispassionate streetrat, melted like hot knife through butter. His emotions had been squeezed and padlocked shut in a small chasm in his heart; and to him, the keys to that door were long flung far into nowhere. But now, hairline fractures cut across the solid, fortified door exposing slivers of weakness to be exploited. Without warning, she flung herself at him, squeezing him in a pseudo-bear hug. In one fell swoop, all the emotions, which had been compressed beyond their capacity while struggling to burst out finally erupted. He felt his heart swelling with unprecedented passion and intensity. He struggled to contain this very foreign entity.

For him, who grew up relying on incisiveness and lex parsimonae in wits and decisions to stay alive, his mind grinded to a blanking halt. His philosophy was simple and practical, harsh but unyieldingly true to realism: in a Darwinian world, one must die for another to survive; sentimentality was not a viable option. In fact, he personally couldnt stand the puerile quality sentimentality possess. Yet here and now, his cynical abhorrence dissolved to give way to pure appreciation. It was like he was touched by the sincerity in her effusive display of emotion. Was that even possible? Snapping back from his momentary reverie, he saw beads of water hang on the woollen fibre of her turtleneck, sparkling under the moonlight like a well-endowed Christmas tree. Then, he felt his gooseflesh start to shiver. He was feeling the dampness in her clothes as they made their way through, diffusing gradually and surely, seeping past his thin jersey until the moisture crushed the hair that were standing on his skin and he could sense the chill in its entirety. In that instance, he thought the experience felt uncannily analogous to a melding of souls, a sharing of sorrow through the spread of the frost; if only to make the raging blizzard within her settle for even the slightest bit. Time stood still, motivated by a want to hold this scene forever. This display of humanity's empowering touch, a bastion of strength reflected in the unison of huddled bodies transcending the rogue elements of Nature.

"I...I'm sorry," she sniffed in a pained, wheezing voice that seemed to bear the entire weight of the world on her frail frame. When she tried to recompose herself to pull back, it dawned upon him like the passing of a cloud. A realisation that she wasnt prone to overt display of weakness; something she would later explain to be a personal sojourn to advocate the struggle of God to banish the failings of humanity, something which he would pointedly remark as being too noble and too grandiose to be possible, had he not known her better. And in a act that surprised her and even himself, he held on to her hand, clasping it securely and comfortingly. Alien to the progress of the slew of events that panned out, he could only meekly manage a "It's okay." It was a voice that belied his conviction to hold onto her. Somehow, he had this intense urge help her, to protect her. He would spend the next few days sitting solemnly, pondering why this was so. He could sense the creeping embarrassment that marked the muted silence and frantically let go, his heart racing like the tempest. If only he had never let go. The tension and hiatus was finally broken when she starting laughing like she had seen a funny side of this whole scenario that eluded his notice. It was muffled, a laughter suffocated by her ongoing sobs - a chimerical amalgamation that got him grinning as well. This is really weird, he thought. The air stirred once more, lapping up her silky long hair, throwing it in an enticing disarray. He was entranced by such poetic beauty that it was not till the wind howled and bellowed like a crazed behemoth that he noticed how much she was shivering. Alarmed, he reached down for his duffel bag and rummaged through its contents to pull out a plain green towel, available courtesy to his initiative to dry himself after the splash across the "moat".

"Here."

"Th..Thanks."

She reached for the towel but experienced a bout of violent sneezing that forced her into a hunched position much akin to its Notre Dame counterpart. Poor girl, he thought and was promptly stumped. Was that empathy? He approached her and donned the towel for her, wrapping it royally and most importantly snuggly around her. Inexplicably, he had softened when he was dealing with her, again. Shaking his head in concerned disbelief, he ploughed through his personal tomb of conversation starters and was found wanting.

"Are you okay now? Still cold?"

"Be..Better!" she sniffled through her sinus that was steadily emerging.

He led her to the edge of the embankment that overlooked the deceptively solemn sea. On cue, as if mocking the complacency of men, a gush of deafening wave crashed against the rocks. They sat precariously at the edge, positioning themselves for comfort against the protrusion of the outcrop. He knew, they knew, that words weren’t needed for now and closed their eyes in a Zen-like meditation with the rolling waves as their rhythmic metronome.

As an infinite calmness washed over him, he opened his eyes. She was gazing into the sea with a look of melancholy yet somehow, he could sense balance returning to her. Her breaths became smoother and lighter though there seemed to be sigh emanating from depth of each exhalation. He could just imagine her inner struggle for acceptance; her inherently positive outlook reassuring her insecurities and unhappiness.

It was then against the silky shine of the moonlight that he saw her face. She was beautiful. The moonlight gave her milky fair and unblemished taut skin an unholy glow. Each feature was exquisitely shaped: a firm pointed nose but not overly so, full glistering lips, a balanced sharp chin and an almond shaped eyes accentuated alluring by a double eyelid - just like one of those impossibly perfect Final Fantasy characters. Simply, she looked like a goddess, a moon goddess, he thought meaningfully. But it was her sultry eyes that attracted his attention the most. They used to say, people may lie or smile or do whatever, but it’s their eyes that reveal the truth. Hers portrayed a juxtapose of fiery cheerfulness and surreptitious helplessness.

She caught him staring and her and grinned. “What’s wrong?”

His face turned hot in an instant and he looked away, albeit a little too quickly. “Nothing, really.”

He couldn’t believe himself. All those street lessons in toughness and masculinity and yet he still withered in the face of this woman. Sheesh, I’m hopeless, he ridiculed himself. But surprisingly, he didn’t mind displaying inadequacy in front of her. Why, though? It wasn’t as if she was the only beautiful creature he had ever seen. He hadn’t felt this way for the rest, why her then?

It was the power of serenity.

Like alcohol, it robs you of your own inhibitions and the shackles of social paradigms. Unlike alcohol, it eases you into doing so. The Place gave him security and momentary escape. Here, he  would feel that no judgements will be passed; no segregation, no presumption, no prejudice, no fear - a respected sanctuary.

“Are you alright now?”

“Yeah.”

“What happened?”

She paused, as if considering her options. “It’s okay if you can’t tell”, he said, noticing her obvious conflict.

“He left.”, she said pointedly. Beyond the facade of indifference, he could see tears welling up again. He felt a sudden pang of uneasiness. “Your boyfriend?”

She gazed skywards to immerse the panorama of the starry skies then closed her eyes in deep thought. “My father. He took everything we ever had and left us. Left us for good. Left us to die.” Her words were callous and bitter, yet he could tell it was the lost love that pained her the most.

It was something new to him. This feeling of estrangement, of affection and heartbreak. He could only pat her meekly on her laps. “It’s okay. Everything’s gonna be okay.” But the knowing silence only confirmed the opposite.

Then she started sobbing. She related her predicament through tiny whimpers and soft sobs. How they were such a loving family. How she was the only child and her father pampered and showered her with parental love and concern. They weren’t the most well-off family around, but they were self-sufficient and happy together. But even fairy tales end, and splinters started to occur after her father was introduced by a friend to poker in an overseas casino. Like a typified gambling addict, he became obsessed: fettered by his loss and spurred on by whatever little winnings he had. As the stakes rose, so did his temper. He was mired deeper and deeper with each passing day. His only outlet was his meticulously nurtured family. They suffered from his angst and depression. The fragility of the family that he painstakingly brought to fruition was too apparent. Her mother’s love gave way to displeasure and discontentment. The only thing holding her together was her precious daughter. She knew her daughter still harboured thoughts of good emerging from this storm, but then one day, saddled with humongous debts and countless grievances from debtors, he left.

By now, tears flowed freely. He felt helpless. He could only offer a sincere listening ear and probably, that was all she needed. She casted her gaze on him and spoke through her weeping; each words intermitting her sorrowful cry. “I’m.. so.. glad.. So.. glad.” She sank her head into his hardened shoulders.

Once normalcy returned to her, she stood up and stumbled before finding her footing. She walked unsteadily towards the path leading out. “Thanks”, she sniffed. “I should be going. Don’t want my mum to worry anymore.”

He nodded in understanding and kept quiet. As she was gradually swallowed by the shadow of the trees, he blurted out. “What’s your name?”

Behind her retreating back, he could scarcely pick out the word.

“Destinee.”

Chapter V

There had been several encounters between the two of them after that incident and not before long, they had become accustomed to each other’s presence. So much so that they shared a hiker’s backpack that had been sneaked into one of the shrubs that laid beside a dwarfish eucalyptus tree. Patches of lavender dotting the perimeter of the hiding spot hinted at the whereabouts of the backpack. The backpack had two compartment - one for him, one for her. They packed a set of dry clothes inside, for when they emerged from the moat. At times, when he opened his portion, he would find his set of clothes laundered clean and ironed down(“Why iron them?”, he would ask, only to receive a stern reproach from her about neatness), perfumed lightly with an irresistible touch of rose. The scent of rose came to associate with her, and he would indubitably reminisce about her whenever he caught a whiff of rose. Also, she would often leave a note in the backpack:

         ‘Hi! How are you holding up with life? =D. Hey listen, I saw something really          funny the other time. There was this toddler who was bawling his lungs out          along the pavement          with his parents fussing all over him. But they got          frustrated and pretended to walk away. Guess what? He stopped crying,          walked over in front of them and started screaming again! What a little          attention seeker! Haha! Hope to see you soon!
                                                                                                         -Destinee xD
         
         PS: Happiness is a choice!’

‘Happiness is a choice’. That was what she would always end her messages with. Once, she said that she advocates subjectivism; that reality is only how we want to make it out to be, and ever though subjectively bad things happen, we should just cry and be happy again. He replied that not everyone has the strength and courage for that, and he didn’t have those attributes. “You have me,”she had said kindly and seriously.

Whenever he read her notes, he would always have this irrepressible urge to smile. To him, her cheerfulness and positivity were boundless and contagious. Yet he would never forget the sadness that always lurks behind that happy emoticon.

He began leaving notes for her too, though they were hugely dreary in comparison to hers. But the note-exchanging slowly became a signature to him, to them. It felt to him like performing a covert operation and to him, the fact that this simple act was unique to them made him feel exhilarated and special. He was making a true friend at last.

Whenever she was there, he would share his stories and thoughts with her, something he wouldn’t ever imagine he would be doing with anybody. But something about her felt reassuring, and he felt joy and easiness chatting with her; and she would do the same, confiding in him her fears and insecurities. Words flowed easily between them and thoughts were shared frequently. To him and his philosophy of individualism, this was something new and refreshing. Something that told him that maybe, just maybe, this world has more to offer than just misery and cruelty as he had seen throughout his life.

For awhile, their interactions were limited only to their shared little notes and genuine conversation in The Place. Somehow, it felt like The Place washed away all worldly attachments for anyone who past through its haloed entrance. Every time they came, they acted like visitors to a sacred oasis, where reality and worries crumbled. Past the exit, it was as if they were strangers without connections, each living their own lives until the next fateful sojourn. But that soon changed with a brief but concise note:

         ‘Hey!! Know what, after so long, I still haven’t gotten your name! I can’t believe          it. Haha. Call me! 9xxx-xxxx. We can chat anywhere, anytime now!
                                                                                                       -Destinee =)
         PS: Happiness is a choice.’
Cloud, my name is Cloud, he thought, his heart making a little flip as he stared at the note with its neatly folded creases.


End of Part I