Since, A Novel

iv. THINGS OUR EYES ARE FOR

iv.
THINGS OUR EYES ARE FOR

"Be home before six." bid Ara's mother from the telephone.
"Is seven-thirty alright?"
"Six. On the dot."
"But—" the glass of water she was drinking was moistened by her sighs.
          "Cool."

The call ended.

               October 2023. At least three months ago, when Ara first thought of ending things with her boyfriend of five years—and its patent, that's-that consequences, which, turned out to taste rather sweet and smooth all far from what she had counted on—she had also thought of the fact that living in a big, busy city meant the need learn on how to navigate throughout all urban and suburban areas—and the secret spots worthy of daily life-pondering and supercuts that really do cut and sting and maybe two blunts to exhale the thought of almost succumbing to homesickness, which she put on an effort to believing that the whole thing was an illusion, an air, because it wouldn't hurt her, wouldn't touch her if it really was—and still she'd find herself mulling and chewing over the resolve she'd chosen because she knew the decision was one-sided.

     On the other hand, there was nothing bittersweet about the breakup. That had come out simpler than how she'd thought: only then did she figure out that falling out of love was a real thing and not did she expect that she was capable of that after having loved the boy in shape, just like what her mother would say, to which Ara did not entirely agree with; she herself was no mother, and loving the boy unconditionally did not exactly mean handing out countless forgiveness cards; she had found it hard for herself to try and appreciate the boy who was okay with having low marks on his grades, with his nose desensitized with the own smell of his room and days-old dirty dishes under his bed.

     But those were not exactly the things which drove her to end everything with him; it was only her. She had seen no point in trying to work out with something which they had built for years; fix it and live with what's left of it. It did not come with faith as she had seen it as something likely to happen; whatever it was, it needed ending. If she were to express these things out loud, she would want someone to know that she was speaking as a person, man to man, and not as a bisexual woman. It still could be that she was a terrible person, at least that's what she would believe, that the notion of laying the blame on things like the lack of time and distance—the very things that would come off as ambiguous once one is all in love—were the elements that taunt any relationship to wither away is all but just wrong.

     Or maybe, she had thought to herself, that neither was she a romantic nor a yearner after all. Even if she were, she had found that staying with him despite what she had truly felt would create an ugly, unsightly slant in the neat concept of having basic human decency, when she no longer saw a future with the boy whom once had cupped and warmed her heart. He was the best lover, notwithstanding the pile of dirty laundry under his pillows (it'd give her acne-breakouts; having convinced herself it was only her period coming). Her mother had worried that it was one of the breakups who'd completely shatter her whole being, as how the old woman did experience back in her prime years, to which Ara reassured that it was nothing of the sort; that it was only something that had to quietly, simply end. It will be college in four months after all, and she'd be better off alone with big projects and activities and a load of paperworks than mourn a relationship that had already died before she had moved out.   

Practicality
Street smarts
Common senses
Ara

     It should sound weird, yes? Her name sounded wrong after shrugging the thought. She was all nervous about the city but just how glad she's been when they had moved there, despite it being their hundredth move already.

And of course, she, in all honesty, was self-conscious about it, and had known it better than a mother tongue. And so all sorts of condemnations and the cold fingers of pressure were all naturally, welcomingly beset on her backbone, almost as though it was a part of an organic process to detaching yourself to being a girl and woman-up, and, that was all that she'd get for regularly feeding on the impression that no matter how things had turned out, she would always always be bigger than all the things she'd hated, and that, eventually, she would be made, of course, of all the things that she had loved. That, to end that way is to be remembered that way.

Well, she still is oh-so, terribly aware of her likelihood to mouth off unreserved complaints before even considering an attempt, and how making a fuss out of the little things she had encountered on a daily basis had all portrayed fine strokes of the privilege that should have been hung in The Louvre.

But, mainly, she knew she had to just do it anyway. So around three in the afternoon, she had made sure to have her things with her: a book, keys, cards, money, phone. When she was out and about to lock the door, how could I forget the perfect pair? In the last months, sketchpad and pen were her best friends.

"F—–ng cold as f—k." she hissed with the abrupt pair of hands deep into her pockets when the cold had settled.

She'd really wished then that she'd finished the mittens. She didn't exactly hate the cold; she had hated the way it'd restricted her like a pint of water out of choice but to embody a teacup when all it ever wanted to be was part of the sea, even better yet, be the sea. Or something.

"Where is this. . . " she rechecked Maps, her now-favourite application, "this T80 thing, come on now."

It was still cold and it has been eleven minutes and never did she expect the music in her ears to have bored her even more. A while after, T80, she'd seen, was the bus to Parramatta. More than five people had waited at the terminal, and more than ten had boarded off. Ding, and the card reader buzzed once she was inside. An extra default fare would be charged for an incomplete trip unless the people's discipline to tap in and off every transportation; how smart, she'd thought, as most students, she'd seen, get on and off without tapping and the driver would just allow, for all they had cared. Ara had taken the empty seat beside the window with the least of sunlight. Minutes after, a blur of mist had covered her view. Despite the interrupted daydreams, she hasn't resisted the urge of drawing a heart on it, she'd do it a thousand times, as though a reminder, in case she forgets, that she was ever her own girl.

Fifteen minutes, then before her was Westfield. There was something unique about Maps that had made her wish she'd known sooner about it. Walks, pants, and more walks—Central Station was that huge—and then she had studied the whole area; the crowds, different food stalls, restroom locations, distinct jazz music from the further side of the platform by local musicians, their hats on the floor, their beautiful smiles, and some beggars, she had seen, were on their knees with cartons on their hands. Someday, she'd thought, she'll be bigger to help them. But she'd opened her bag and felt no penny inside. Never mind, next time. She had arrived at the college, and had thought that was it, until she'd seen a huge park having faced it on the other side of the road, until she had noticed the weather there was more humid. A little stay could do, she had thought, as the greenery was all too convincing, always is.

In all hope, she'd thought, there would be something worth rummaging in the wide park, be it the flock of pigeons or the grey above, or the same buildings, or different people, anything, anyone. What were our eyes for after all?

The rain had stopped. Her hands were out from both pockets. On her nose, moisture.

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