Tan Zhi Jie

To forget you: That is the most impossible thing to do.

To forget is just an interpretation. An immeasurable love’s memories can never be wiped off. Time doesn’t devour memories: It just slowly, painfully converts it into fragments of a dream. Occasionally, something will spark the wrath of the dream, and the dream will alter into a memory again.

To forget you. Is not to remember you. Every single detail in life reflects you. Every MRT Station I see, every drink I drink, every shirt I wear. But to forget you, what I have to do is not to remember you: Not to remember that we once kissed at this MRT Station, not to remember that we once shared that drink, not to remember that you bought me that shirt.

For now, sinking into a memory of one of the touches you stroked on me, I cannot remember the physical touch, but I can remember the delicacy of it.

Have I forgotten you, superwoman? When I tried to forget you, I had just thought of you again. Are you, are you thinking of me now, as my mind revolves with your image, again and again?

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

It was not a decision based on emotions when I decided to break the news to you. I had thought of it for months: The happiness that we shared, it is never going to last, and if that is so, why still pursue a love that is going to writhe away soon? Why create more happiness, when I know that this ring of glee is going to be part of a memory that you will dearly miss, and I will heartbreakingly forget?

Before I met you, I wondered why all the lyrics in love songs were so exaggerated: Why do lyricists create such mushy and overemotional sentences? Why can’t they just write a good melody without those melodramatic lyrics? That is plain exaggeration.

Before I fell in love with you, I thought romance novels were just so silly: Why would a person cry for another person for hours? How could a person wait for his lover for years? That is plain silliness.

Before we became a couple, I thought romance movies were just so stupid: How could a person love another person so deeply that it became an obsession? How could one sacrifice so much, even to the extent of his own life, for his lover? That is plain stupidity.

When I realized I had fallen so deeply in love with you, I finally understood that songs, novels and movies are just reflections of life, inspired by the writers’ true stories.

Because when I decided to end our relationship, I realized our story mirrors a love song that I once heard, a novel you once read and a movie we once watched.

When I step out of the main door, I love you deeply, but am going to tell you that we are going to separate soon. The pain is not the separation: The pain is the love that we share; the love that was once so blissful is never going to be refreshed again.

The pain is that we are still so much in love, yet we have to let go now. Only someone who had experienced this before will understand.

Isn’t it ironic? It is my profound love for you that brought us together. Now, it is the same profound love that will separate us.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

We have known each other for two hundred and thirteen months now, and have been together for ninety months.

You should have seen it coming, right? For the last few months, I have been exceptionally quiet. It used to be me calling you in the night more than you calling me. But last month, I didn’t even give you a call. You were the one who called.

You can feel it, right? We used to meet at least four times a week. But last month, we met only once a week. You scolded me, but you can tell that I didn’t feel a speck of remorse, right?

“I’m sorry.” I start, my low voice cutting into the tranquil night. I have come today not to explain, but to inform. I didn’t enter the house, but stood outside the gates with my bike parked near the road, an unfamiliar parking position.

“What? For being late again? I’m used to it, superman. What is the thing that you cannot say on the phone?”

“I think… we should break up.”

You smile, that smile that used to melt my heart. I look away as your voice rings chokingly into my ears: “Yeah, me too.”

Maybe there’s laughter; I can’t tell. “I’m not joking.” I say. You are still putting on that smile. It must be hard for you to digest this for I never crack this kind of joke. The silence slices back, and I feel like we are two trapped butterflies in a bottle, waiting to be experimented on.

“I’m sorry.” I say. “Sorry.” I step back. “Sorry.” I say again, and distance away from you. “Sorry.” I say again. “Sorry.” I forget how many apologies I made.

We are separated by a pair of closed gates between us. What you need to do is to push a button on your remote key and the gates will swing open: But if it swings open and breaks off the barrier between the both of us, the gates will hit me as it swing outwards towards me.

Isn’t that an appalling reflection of our relationship? Breaking the barrier will allow us to be together, but one of us will be hurt. One of us has to give way, and I have volunteered to be the one.

I turn and walk towards my bike. Maybe you’re crying. Haven’t you seen it coming? These few months, our conversations were like two strangers who had just become friends. Six steps later, I finally turn my head a little to steal a glance – a final glance maybe - at you. I cannot see you clearly, because in front of my eyes are my own tears.

Are they tears of sorrow, or tears of relief?

“Come back, you stupid idiot!”

I turn the key on my motorbike and the headlights shone. Then I push the “start” button and the bike roars a little.

“Why?” After you said that, the sound of the gates opening echoes into the serene night. As you march towards me, I can hear your every step. “Please tell me why. It’s a joke, right? Right?”

I fix my eyes on the bike, not wanting you to see my reddened eyes.

“Stop right there!” You say, and grab my hand. I push your hand away gently.

I can remember the delicacy, but not the touch. I have forgotten the touch, but not the delicacy.

“I’m sorry.” I say. “Forget me.”

“I can’t!”

“But I had.” I say, my voice fading to a whisper.

“I’m crying.” You say. I can hear it: Your sentences were chalky, and your voice was high. Blood. Blood? Why do I think of blood when you said that you were crying?

“I’m sorry.”

“You don’t remember your promise?”

I sit on my bike and put on my helmet.

“How about Superland? How about our promises? How about our time capsules? We can work things out, superman!”

Superland. Our promised land. Our time capsules. We will be married. Apples’ Day. Super Day.
I press on the clutch and kick to gear one. Your eyes are red, and you are blinking fast, waiting for an answer from me.

Through my full-face helmet, I just say sheepishly, “I’m sorry. Please don’t look for me anymore.” Maybe you didn’t hear that, for my voice is soft with despair.

I release the clutch, twist the throttle and lift both my legs up. “Come… back, you stupid idiot.” Your voice faints off, just like our memories.

Before I leave my flat, I had already put all my emotions on hold: I will no longer be controlled by my emotions, or by you.

Don’t you understand, superwoman? It’s for your own good. Why will I want to break off with you, when laughter and bliss surround us? Because I can no longer provide you with the same happiness; I will be late for our dates for two hours, four hours, eight hours, sixteen hours, days, months. You will disappear from my life soon, while I will live in your mind endlessly. Because if both of us are to cry, I want to be the one who cries louder, I want to be the one who takes a longer time to recover. I want to absorb all the sadness from you. Why don’t I disappear instead, so that you will find another superman who loves you truly?

The utmost pain in this world is not breaking up with you: It is remembering the love that we once shared, yet there is no likelihood to revive this love once again.

I don’t remember the tears; I only remember the pain.

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