We can’t be friends. We’ve been spoken for by the Universe, a power so knowing, so undeniable - it is beyond our combined scope. We can spend days by the ocean, skipping stones and flicking cigarettes but we know separation like we know regret; how inevitable it is, how looming it is.
The wind blows, a wave crashes and I turn to you, your body rich in color, irises the shade of emeralds, hair in a messy ponytail; a vibe so unfamiliar. I remember when I couldn’t look away.
“What do you think happens when we die?”
Sunlight hits your lens yet I can still see myself in the reflection, an orange tinge of a human being.
“Poof,” you say. “Nothing. You live and you die.” Your delicate fingers dance in the wind, hands intertwined above your head.
But that’s not true. You don’t believe that. We used to ditch parties and go to rooftops and stare at stars and point at the ones we’d like to come back as. I don’t faze you, you’ve grown too accustomed to these type of questions and musings.
“I feel sorry for you if you really think that,” I say and lay out, let the Sun scorch my skin, the beach towel the only thing between my bare back and specks of sand.
“Were you planning on doing something? You should do it soon.”
If I left it to you to explain, our story has no magic. It’s a moment. We met in a library, you needed a pencil, whatever. But when you hear me talk about the moment our eyes aligned, I can sense your awe, your sight following the words into the air, wishing you could gather this language and store it into a cauldron or a vase, decorate it with flowers, show it to your children. This fool fell for me one day. And he fell for me hard. Look how much he cared about me. Look at all the nice things he said about me.
“Our love is a facade,” you told me in privacy, two years later, cigarette in hand, eyes distant, cold, not there.
“A facade?”
“It’s not real. Nothing is real. We’re not here to do this, to live like this.”
“I love you.”
“How can you be so sure? What gives you the right to say something like that?”
“Just sit, let’s talk, can we talk?”
“I have to go.”
Why does the Woman cry? Why does the Man shout? If you leave, I’ll fall apart. I’ll disintegrate into the Earth, a lost memory, a facade of a human being, irrevocably ruined.
“I can’t do it anymore, I can’t take this shit.”
Your silhouette in the sun astonishes me. Its slender form, the way it moves, so smooth, so temporary. You know the type, the type of tears that sting to wipe away, to burn to release. If you leave, I’ll smoke a million cigarettes, drown in alcohol, call my mother, stare at space. We can’t be friends because we listened to Empathy together too many times in my backseat, in your bed, in my bed, in this lifetime. “I love you in a place where there’s no space or time.”
Sitting down next to me, your long fingers sifting through the sand, lighting a joint, I don’t think I could ever love again.
“This isn’t working. You’ve got to let me go, you’ve got to let me live.”
I could never be a surgeon. My hand trembles at your diction alone, my heart spirals into delusion. If you leave, I’ll go for a drive with the windows down, let the wind hit me. You always told me to remain unassuming, uncertain of the future. It’s a dice roll, a flip of a coin. It’s torturous. There's no year... just seasons.
"You need to love yourself first.”
I always knew it, I always knew love shouldn’t end in exhaustion, in repetition. If you leave, I won’t leave the house, tormented by what-ifs, goodbyes and no mores.
“If I leave, will you be okay?”
You don’t wait for an answer. You stand, your shadow towering over me, joint dangling from your fingertips and keep walking, seemingly into the Sun as it sets, a lone figure, a soul departed, a love unrequited. We can’t be friends because our love manifests itself into a ghost, a hazy dream, an illusion. As I go my way, the assumed truth slowly dawns on me: however long the heart beats, it has beaten both for and by you.
The wind blows, a wave crashes and I turn to you, your body rich in color, irises the shade of emeralds, hair in a messy ponytail; a vibe so unfamiliar. I remember when I couldn’t look away.
“What do you think happens when we die?”
Sunlight hits your lens yet I can still see myself in the reflection, an orange tinge of a human being.
“Poof,” you say. “Nothing. You live and you die.” Your delicate fingers dance in the wind, hands intertwined above your head.
But that’s not true. You don’t believe that. We used to ditch parties and go to rooftops and stare at stars and point at the ones we’d like to come back as. I don’t faze you, you’ve grown too accustomed to these type of questions and musings.
“I feel sorry for you if you really think that,” I say and lay out, let the Sun scorch my skin, the beach towel the only thing between my bare back and specks of sand.
“Were you planning on doing something? You should do it soon.”
~
If I left it to you to explain, our story has no magic. It’s a moment. We met in a library, you needed a pencil, whatever. But when you hear me talk about the moment our eyes aligned, I can sense your awe, your sight following the words into the air, wishing you could gather this language and store it into a cauldron or a vase, decorate it with flowers, show it to your children. This fool fell for me one day. And he fell for me hard. Look how much he cared about me. Look at all the nice things he said about me.
“Our love is a facade,” you told me in privacy, two years later, cigarette in hand, eyes distant, cold, not there.
“A facade?”
“It’s not real. Nothing is real. We’re not here to do this, to live like this.”
“I love you.”
“How can you be so sure? What gives you the right to say something like that?”
“Just sit, let’s talk, can we talk?”
“I have to go.”
~
Why does the Woman cry? Why does the Man shout? If you leave, I’ll fall apart. I’ll disintegrate into the Earth, a lost memory, a facade of a human being, irrevocably ruined.
“I can’t do it anymore, I can’t take this shit.”
Your silhouette in the sun astonishes me. Its slender form, the way it moves, so smooth, so temporary. You know the type, the type of tears that sting to wipe away, to burn to release. If you leave, I’ll smoke a million cigarettes, drown in alcohol, call my mother, stare at space. We can’t be friends because we listened to Empathy together too many times in my backseat, in your bed, in my bed, in this lifetime. “I love you in a place where there’s no space or time.”
Sitting down next to me, your long fingers sifting through the sand, lighting a joint, I don’t think I could ever love again.
“This isn’t working. You’ve got to let me go, you’ve got to let me live.”
I could never be a surgeon. My hand trembles at your diction alone, my heart spirals into delusion. If you leave, I’ll go for a drive with the windows down, let the wind hit me. You always told me to remain unassuming, uncertain of the future. It’s a dice roll, a flip of a coin. It’s torturous. There's no year... just seasons.
"You need to love yourself first.”
I always knew it, I always knew love shouldn’t end in exhaustion, in repetition. If you leave, I won’t leave the house, tormented by what-ifs, goodbyes and no mores.
“If I leave, will you be okay?”
You don’t wait for an answer. You stand, your shadow towering over me, joint dangling from your fingertips and keep walking, seemingly into the Sun as it sets, a lone figure, a soul departed, a love unrequited. We can’t be friends because our love manifests itself into a ghost, a hazy dream, an illusion. As I go my way, the assumed truth slowly dawns on me: however long the heart beats, it has beaten both for and by you.
Mustafa Abubaker is a 21 year old writer and student of Pakistani descent in Atlanta, Georgia. A self-proclaimed music-addict, he wrote this story inspired by a Dream Koala song of the same name.
He says, "This story is for me. I want to look back at it years from now and feel something."
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