You are what you love, not who loves you - Part 2

Written by Janus Wong’ 23

Part 1 is published in issue 09 - looking glass.

To you through me:

When he received an invitation to showcase his work at Oxford’s music department, he texted her instantly: I’m going to be at Oxford from the 13th to the 18th next month - my first exhibition will be on the 16th and 17th, and I’d love it if you can come! She replied immediately, with dozens of emojis and exclamation marks and capital letters. She told him she was going to check her calendar for dates to fly to England, and he couldn’t stop smiling at his phone. Moments later, she texted saying she only had time for after the 18th, and even so, she wouldn’t be able to confirm any plans until much later. She seemed sad she couldn’t make it to his first exhibition, especially since it was going to be at Oxford. It’s okay, he replied, trying not to sound too upset himself, all the best with your next project!

It had been two years since he left the city and three since he last saw her. They texted and called each other regularly when she first left for New York. That first year when she was settling down to a new country and job was also his last year of music school, when he was under immense pressure to wrap up all his projects for graduation. Despite these big, stressful life changes, the two were still able to develop a comfortable rhythm with each other across the Atlantic. However, as she got more involved in her job the second year, her texting and calling became more sporadic. Similarly, he found it more difficult to keep in touch with her after he graduated as he began moving around to work with different artists and labels and producers. He still cared a lot about her, and he could tell she did too with the way she would respond to his random texts with paragraphs of her own updates, albeit weeks or even months later. And so when he invited her to come to his first exhibition, he really hoped she would come. It was understandable why she couldn’t though, given her busy schedule. He was a bit upset, but he resorted to thinking of the opportunity to visit Oxford as one just for himself. After all, it would be his first time visiting the city in two years, and he felt apprehensive and excited and lonely and nostalgic all at the same time.

When he got off the train and set foot on the cobblestone path, a wave of jamais vu crashed into him. It was weird to fall into Oxford’s rhythm once again, but it was so inexplicably comforting to find his favourite book store still on Broad Street and his favourite sandwich place still on Holywell Street. It was also oddly calming to go on his favourite walk at the back of University Parks and coming out of it at Music Meadow. Some things were different though. There was a new chocolate store on Turl Street, and it surprised him to see the long line there every day. The Bridge of Sighs was still there - of course it was - but the little art stall that braved many grey days with him was no more. Being there again just made the hole in his heart more apparent.

What would she do if she were here? She would not stop gushing at the summer beauty of the city, and she would find inspiration in their visit to create a masterpiece. The thought of her eyes lighting up at the view warmed his heart. Moments later, he took a seat on the stairs across the Bridge and started writing out a melody that was forming in his head.

The next couple days went by in a blur, and he was proud to be able to finish composing the melody he came up with on the first day he got there. The production process was reminiscent of his days as an undergraduate with the all-nighters he pulled and oat lattes he consumed from Society Cafe. He premiered at the closing of his exhibition as a tribute to his time in Oxford, and it felt like closure three years later. 

In the morning he was supposed to fly out of the country, his next engagement was rescheduled to a later date, and so he decided to stay in Oxford for an extra day.

This extra day is coincidentally the day of the summer solstice. He doesn’t realise it until he is woken by the birdsong shortly past 4 in the morning. He takes a moment to breathe in the brisk summer air and appreciate the pink, dawning sky. His mind tells him that the birdsong and the pink sky must mean something to him, but in his sleep-deprived state, he can’t seem to tie the fragments together, and he decides to shove these thoughts at the back of his mind as he returns to sleep.

After he finishes packing in the afternoon, he decides to wander around the city one last time. He walks to Port Meadow to see the geese and horses and tries one of the chocolate store’s “expertly crafted chocolate drinks.” It is that familiar time in the year when the city is quieting down as students trickle out at the end of term, and to him, an empty, quiet Oxford has a certain charm to it. It always seems like there can be so much more potential to reach when things slow down, and these pockets of time allow him to truly enjoy every step he takes on the cobblestone path.

At sunset, he approaches the Bridge once again. This time, he goes on the other side to face the old library. When he looks up from his drink, his heart skips a beat as he sees her standing on the other side, eyes pinning him down intensely from afar. 

He sees the past couple years flash before his eyes. Back when he was but a clueless student who stumbled across her and her dreams, when he found inspiration for his compositions in an arched shade, when he etched his heart on her and her art. There is something nostalgic and wistful in the thin, eager air. That scene unravels in his mind, as he pictures the sky turning a blushing pink, relives an outpour of energy in him, and wills the image of a free-flying kite soaring into the wispy clouds. 

It’s weird that even though they have more or less kept in touch in the past couple years, seeing her in person has literally taken the breath out of his lungs. Perhaps it is because he did not expect to see her at all that day. He decides to make his way across to her, remembering how she was the one who spoke to him first three years ago. Back then, he harboured a lot of cynicism when approaching her art stall. Funnily enough, his walls crumbled down as he spent more time with and grew alongside her. Now, it feels almost like coming home to someone who had a lot of trouble defining what home meant. And he’s so ready to just offer his heart out on his hands with no defences at all, because that was what those years in Oxford meant to him: Youth at its finest, reckless, liberating, and passionate.

“You didn’t tell me you were coming,” he says jokingly.

"You didn’t tell me you were staying past the exhibition!” she counters, and then explains, “I decided to come on a whim yesterday because I finished what I had to do early.”

“My next engagement got rescheduled, so I decided to stay for an extra day,” he says.

“Well, the stars aligned again,” she says. “Maybe it’s a summer solstice thing. It’s like the birds. They’re always loud during the summer solstice.” 

All of a sudden, he is at a loss for words as his mind tries to make sense of what she just said. The birdsong this morning, the pink sky, the kite under the Bridge of Sighs comes to mind. He thinks he’s heard her say this to him before, something about how his compositions remind her of the birdsong outside her window when she used to stay here. 

“Hey, I’ve listened to all your work on SoundCloud already. I didn’t actually have to go to the exhibition, don’t feel so bummed about it,” she says, filling the silence.

“I- I know,” he sputters. Then he takes a deep breath. “I made something new when I got here though. I’ll play it for you now. It’s called The Kite Runners.”

Her eyes widen as he plays the track from his phone, and he holds his breath for the entirety of the song. 

“What do you think?” he asks, his fingernails digging into the palms of his hands.

For a moment, she cranes her neck up briefly to look at the sky, and he notices her blinking the tears away from her eyes, the muted sunlight resting on her face. The silence roars at the back of his head. She looks down at her feet and hesitates, as if she is choosing her words delicately, and then the corners of her lips turn slightly upwards before she says, “There were many times I’d imagined the birdsong being intertwined with the kite’s flight. I can’t believe you actually made it happen so beautifully.”

“Because it meant a lot to me. The kite,” he says immediately. He doesn’t know how he channeled the bravery to say that then. You, he actually wanted to say, but he thinks he needs a bit more courage for that.

Her head snaps up, and all of a sudden her delicate features are in the subtle glow of the setting sun again. “Tell me more about it, please,” she says.

He thinks he can hear the tinkling laughter of two children flying a kite in an alternate universe. It feels like returning home, it really does. Even if it’s just for one night, he feels safe again.