朋友

还有伤 还有痛 还要走
还有我

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Today has truly been a day. It has all the elements; of learning and resting, laughing and working, of listening and sleeping (for some, haha), of pleasant surprises and rude shocks, of welcomes and goodbyes, of meetings and departures.

A day like this will likely not come for a while.

What use is reflecting? I do not deny its benefits. But sometimes, the silent reflection's golden shine surpasses all.

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A step along the pathway. How long has it been? He tried not to remember - it would seem just like yesterday that way. The drizzling rain barely keeps his memory drowned amongst the small ripples of sentimentality.

A bunch of kids running along the corridors. "Do not run on the corridor!" He heard the teacher shout, and turned his head instinctively. The kids continued to run down the corridor, no teacher in sight. Ah, he thought, things probably weren't the same.

He walked down the corridor again. How often was it that he would run along with the youngest of his classmates down, rushing for food? How often was it that he would stay in class along with the middle-yeared of his classmates, rushing for work? How often was it that he would slowly stroll down with the eldest of his classmates, down for a chat over a plate of rice and a cup of iced tea?

He stared into the classroom. He saw the teacher teaching, the children learning. He looked a slight bit longer. Second row, third from left. That was the place where he had spent so much time. Third row, next to the window. That was where he talked with a good 'mate of his throughout the early dawns of life.

A light chuckle. Front row, center child. Sleeping with the textbook in front of his face. It had to be. The guy I knew did that too, and he was front row center, the man thought.

The light rain continued to drizzle down. This was what January was like. Staying in class and ignoring both first and second assembly bells. If only it were lighter rain then instead of pouring torrents. This was perfect, yet somewhat at the wrong time.

He walked up the staircase. The staircase he walked up and down every single day for a good part of his life. Who knows how many steps up he had walked? How long has that uphill path been? How long did the stairway go up? When would it end? He cut himself mid-thought and just continued to walk up. Yes, that's what it was like. I never thought about such things then, he thought. Just keep walking like this.

The main assembly ground, now lightly tinted sepia. "Baris! Sedi-a!" A shuffling of feet. The national anthem. A gigantic bunch of students arranged by years and classes, the teachers few and far between in the masses, the loud (occasionally less-so) voice of the commander, the five stars and the golden wyvern rising, the multiracial pledges, the everyday devotions.

The rain drowned it all out again. Sepia fades into greyness. The clock tower says eleven, not seven half. He laughed a little inside; I must be thinking a bit too much again, he thought. He walked through the parade ground, faint raindrops on his back.

Each footstep the slightest bit heavier. Each smile the slightest bit fainter. Each heartbeat the slightest bit wearier. And slowly, a drop. A sob. A tear.

It really was the end of it all, wasn't it? All these years, moving up the path by oneself; through rain, through shine, through pains and tears - how? How? Another sob, another tear. He continued walking.

The newer area of school, he thought, and cut himself midthought. This isn't newer anymore. A bittersweet smile. And he walked up another flight of stairs.

The empty table. On one end, him, laptop in hand and patiently typing out everything silently albeit annoyedly. On the other end, her - no, them -

- no, us.

Standing together around, giving moral support. For whom? Her. For whom? Another one of 'us'. For what? For her tears, for her sadness, for her worries. Doing the best we could. Remembering this very place one year down the road and laughing heartily about how she cried that day, all of us. And here I am, he thought, remembering about this very place a few years down the road, and he smiled as he walked down the stairs.

The pond. The messages; the fishes. The juniors feeding them. The staircases up to class. Every step, another person would run past excitedly. Every step, he would turn his head towards an empty staircase. Every step, the sounds would be drowned out by the rain.

The man reached the canteen, and opened the glass doors. He moved instinctively to the sixth store (the fifth later on, but merely an issue of orientation). Closed. Ah well, he thought, and went to the first store and bought a cup of iced tea before sitting down on one of the tables. The rain was silenced by the barrier of glass, and the canteen was a silent place to him.

Suddenly, he looked up. Why? He didn't know - a mere feeling. How did he know? He didn't - there was no way of knowing. But yet it was. He saw them, and they saw him. And they sat together after being apart for the longest of times. And they talked about the times that they were together, and the times that they were apart. And each step along someone would be smiling.

Moving on was painful. It hurt. But he went on. Because he wasn't walking alone. They were with him. What were they? He thought for a while. Ah. They were friends. The days were gone, the times are long past. In their place, a cup of iced tea; a well-due conversation. A single statement.

"Hey there."