Everything I Never Say ✓

[ three ]

Three

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Do you remember that one time you poured soup over me?

I do.

Then again, I remember almost everything when it comes to you.

Though a part of me believes this incident is one that you too must probably remember. After all, you were at an age old enough to form strong memories when it happened, having moved past that timeline which allowed kids the excuse of not recalling certain events due to the drunkenness that hangs over the first three to four years of life.

You must have been, what, eleven? That means I would've been seven. We have a four year gap, you and I. But we're born on the same month, if you don't already know. I don't know if you know. You did, once. I don't think it's significant enough a detail to be embedded into your conscience though.

But its significant enough (and more) for me. Four years. Same month of July. Me, on the seventh. And you, on the thirteenth. Six days apart.

We were vacationing somewhere, your family and mine, along with a bunch of your cousins.

I can't remember the country, Daniel. It was Asian, that much I know. But that's it.

I don't remember the country because the country doesn't matter—the place we holidayed in is not what keeps the memory floating around in my head, is it? Its the people I flew to that country with, the people I spent that holiday with. Its you, you, you.

You are what let's the memory live. You are what breathes life into it. You are what wakes it up when its gone to sleep at the back of my mind. You. You. You. Always you.

I had a knack for pissing you off back then, for forcing myself under your nerves and climbing them in the most frustrating manner possible. We'd bring the roof down if we were ever in the same room, remember? Our bickering and the arguing and the eventual part where you'd say something nasty and I'd start shedding pathetic tears despite having dug myself the hole by going toe-to-toe with you.

This hole of losing my wayward heart to you is another one I dug myself, Daniel. And sometimes I'm terrified of never wanting to climb back out.

Back to that vacation, back to the time you poured soup over me—I need to come back to it because I get carried away talking about you. Truth is, I can go on speaking of you for an eternity and it still wouldn't seem like I'd done justice to all the feelings you bring to life in me.

I think I must have got on your nerves again. Actually, I don't just think—I'm pretty darn sure that's what happened. You were an impatient boy, with a short fuse and a quick temper and a mean tongue, and I absolutely, unapologetically enjoyed making you lose your cool.

You sometimes went red in the face when I made you irritated beyond belief, you know that? I don't think even the harsh winters or the ice rains made your face go that red.

But, like I said, I had a knack for it. I'm too tired to check if I still do. Then again, you've changed a lot since all those years ago.

You warned me, by the way.

You warned me that if I didn't stop whatever it was that I was doing, or saying, you'd pour soup over me to shut me up.

I didn't listen, Daniel.

This silly girl brushed off your words and muttered something else.

I remember smiling smugly, and looking down at my own bowl of soup. It was sweet corn, by the way. I think it even had shredded chicken in it.

I love sweet corn soup, Daniel. But not to the extent that I wanted my head and face to be dripping with it.

I remember quite clearly that I was looking down at the bowl in my hands, because had I seen you approach, I'd have run for my life. But I didn't see you creep towards me, and then it was too late.

I didn't feel you creep into my heart either, Daniel.

And once again, it's too late.

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