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If the world was ending tonight, I would still hold you in my arms.
Maybe I’d apologise for something that my petty self did the previous day or thank you for staying with me till the end.
I’d probably be crying while spilling out all the words that stayed stuck in my throat into a jumbled mash of confessions.
I would also hug you so painfully tight in hopes that I could tattoo the smell of the sweet honey scented shampoo that you use into my lungs. It’d be the last thing that I’d smell, and you’d be the last thing that I’d hold.
Between my sobbing and your comforting, you’d be the first one to pull away and look into my eyes while I ramble on about something sad. Then you’d nod along, taking in every incoherent statement that I say and keeping it close to your heart like you always do.
You once told me that you loved my voice, be it when I sing or when I speak and I almost cried when I heard that compliment come from you. It sounded so sincere that I couldn’t help but believe that my voice held something special in it, enough so that it made you fall in love with me.
It made me proud of myself for once, and you remind me at every opportunity how much you cherish my voice. Because of that, I’ve grown to like it too. You are the first person who makes me unafraid to speak my mind.
I’ve never told you this, but I want to learn how to love the way that you do; be it the cute things like cats and bunnies, or things about me, like my voice and my smile, you make me want to understand how your world works. It has become a kind of promise to myself, to try as hard as I can so that I’d be someone who can make you feel the type of love that can touch the soul.
I know this sounds all sorts of weird and crazy, but is it bad that I sometimes wish for the end of the world to come to us with a warning? Because then, I’d have the chance to say goodbye to all the people who I love, you being the most precious one of them all. I can’t plan the exact words into a script, knowing how I love to keep things real and impromptu, but if there’s one thing I will mention, it’s that day.
The day you found me in the storm, drenched to the bones, trembling from the knowledge of my aunt’s passing. I’d whip out that dusty umbrella and write a poem about it, and about us, to distract from the impending doom. Our love story isn’t what I’d fathomed before, but there’s nothing I’d change about it.
Another thing I've never said aloud is that I always wish for the same thing every year on my birthday — an everlasting romance.
You are proof that dreams do come true, and wishing upon a star may very well reveal the constellations hidden in the night.
You shone upon me like a brilliant blessing, shielding me with your tacky yellow umbrella like a K-drama lead who forgot his lines.
I found it weird at first that you hadn’t said a word when you hugged my cold shoulders and dragged me to your corridor. But it was nice how easily I could follow your lead and trust that you’d never say a word about that encounter if I didn’t bring it up first. There’s something poetic about the wordless silence that you offer, like your warm gaze that stays on me when you think I’m unaware. It reminds me of that same umbrella you refuse to throw away now, even though it has a hole at the centre that makes it unusable.
You feel like a shelter that stands over me to deflect the hurt, your selfless sacrifices forming the rip in the yellow canopy because you say it’s better to share the pain than to bear it all alone.
As ridiculous as it sounds, I’ve grown to like that tacky umbrella over time. It holds the beautiful memory of your promise to stay with me till the end. And I don’t mind getting a little wet if it means you’re never leaving my side. What’s life without a little rain and a lot of love?
I’d delude myself into believing that I’m ready to let go of everything that we’ve ever dreamt of. A house that belongs to us, a marriage that is possible, and a society that accepts our love without judgement. I’d pretend that we’d achieved the happiness of two souls belonging to one another, even though we’re only ever allowed to be boyfriends.
Maybe if I tried hard enough, I’d finally be ready for the ending scene of our movie. Perhaps it will wrap up with a bright flash that wipes everything clean in seconds or the world crumbling into itself like a disaster film. Or it could come as a rampant disease, infecting every living being on earth and making our brains rot into useless blobs of mash.
However it ends, it doesn't really matter to me. What I want to know is when it all ends so that I can brace myself for our last moment.
When the ending credits roll, it’d replay our happiest moments together — the day you confessed to me, the day we moved into a new (it’s really quite old) apartment, and the times we kissed like the world didn’t matter at all. I’d think that nothing else matters if you’re with me at the end — not the fear, the anxiety, or the loss.
If my world was ending tonight, it’d mean that you were the one to leave me behind. And I refuse to mourn for you if it means I will have to let go of your hands and carry on a meaningless life alone.
Your hand in mine is all I need to brave any storm, and if we’re doing it together, then I’m not so scared of death afterall.