zha

di semesta alternatif, ibu dan ayahku bicara dengan nada jenaka, dan pulang ke rumah masing-masing tanpa dengki. sepatuku selalu terpoles dan bersih. setiap hari, aku hitung empat puluh satu langkahku menuju pintu rumah sahabatku.

di semesta alternatif, adikku pemakan segala. klub buku yang didirikan teman sekolahku tidak pernah sepi tamu. selama dua belas tahun aku sekolah, tidak pernah aku mendengar satupun guruku bicara, "kamu itu susah diatur!"

di semesta alternatif, kamu duduk bersamaku. hari kamis malam, hujan, tidak ada ruang di tengah-tengah kita karena kamu selalu kedinginan. martabak manis yang tidak terlalu manis. pulang berjalan kaki tanpa siulan usil. di jalan pulang, aku bersikeras untuk pergi dari kota kecil dan membosankan ini. kamu, seperti biasa, akan menarik kepang rambutku dan mengataiku sinting. "jangan impulsif lalu menyesal kemudian hari," katamu, pelan dan tertelan hujan.

di semesta alternatif, kata "rahasia" terdengar asing bagi semua orang, apalagi antara aku dan kamu.

di semesta alternatif, aku dan kamu banyak tertawa.

JESUS: It is enough.

JUDAS: Merely I am a means to an end.

JESUS: You are important to me.

JUDAS: I would rather give my life.

JESUS: You cannot. It is not what He wants.

JUDAS: I do not care.

JESUS: You care about me.

[Silence.]

JESUS: I care about you. You are my completion.

[Jesus walks away.]

for all ways i can twist your words; toss them back to you, perhaps—there are at least seven hundred ways i could twist them downwards. i still can't find even a quarter to twist them upwards. the reality is often devastating.

we’ll get through this, you echoed. chanting the words, holier than prayer; hoping they’d reach somewhere. an affirmation, you were sure of it. you didn’t try to hide either, i supposed i seemed familiar to you.

“i wish the world were ending tomorrow.”

and i feel that, in every inch of my bones, a growing, unrelenting gash in my body—i feel it everywhere, its anchor planted deep. i wish the world were ending tomorrow.

i wish the world were ending tomorrow, and somehow i wouldn’t be surprised as i get ready; a handwritten letter and a quill inside my leather bag and nothing else. i wish the world were ending tomorrow, and i would knock on your oak door, be on my knees; i would be on your mercy, dear, sheathe your sword and end me.

i want to be

a crazy, alcoholic cosmonaut

floating outside your reach

in a space between

everything and nothing.

cutting rope,

i will say

to the vast empty lot

full of rocks in front,

“i am ne’er coming down,

i have brought

everything

i got.”

they will not question

whether it’s a hiccup

or a sob!

instead,

stars glimmer,

saturn bitter;

“you foolish,

foolish child!”

as i swallow down

the butterflies, the lava

the acid and smoke

i am whole

as i sink

down,

down,

down

and blink the last sight

of what used to be

the writer wrote about snowy mountains, and how the clearing looked more breathtaking covered with snow than bright flower petals. i remembered the foreign cold in a foreign country. it had been nice, i recalled, but it made my stomach lurch because i thought: that was not my place.

the discontent revelation made me uneasy.

i want to feel how they feel. i want to distort my reality where i could understand what they meant better, which means i don’t want to live here, i don’t want to live in the scalding hot air of my country which i simply cannot bear—and instead, i want to roam freely around the cold bites of snow in the mountains. i would’ve understand giyuu’s sentiment much more. i would’ve appreciate the phantom cold seeping inside my mind upon reading the description of sagiri if i had known how it feels.

maybe.

maybe, it was less the sense of estrangement and more of envy. maybe it’s the need of belonging, because at least giyuu belonged somewhere, even in another universe. because giyuu had a place to come back, because giyuu had home.

how do you overcome the loss of someone, significant as they were and that they mattered for you, that they had changed your life in a way—how do you even bear it?

you grieve. you grieve the loss of that someone; feeling the bruises in each palpitation, the cracks the bruises caused along your sternum and your ribcage. . . they’re big enough to be felt, but not enough to tear you apart.

the loss you feel always tries to claw its way out—not caring how hurt you already are, not knowing that there will always be little shards left behind. it tries, and it tries, and it tries, never realising that it’s time to stop trying.

it would be better if you could rip it off yourself. extricate it off your heart, tend the wounds, and be done with it. to be in peace with the unpleasant memories, to smile at the thought of them; their quirks, how they talked, and the little things that they did for you.

you wish you could do it. but you can’t.

you can’t, and it frustrates you to no end, but you simply can’t. it won’t be fair either if you choose to ignore—to let it try, daring it to ruin you, burn you down from the inside. because you shouldn’t let it win.

soon enough, one becomes two, two becomes many. you are not done grieving that someone, but the second loss pushes in anyway—and then the third and the fourth and the fifth, they all want to break you. they want a visible scar.

and you still have to live, frantically shoving the feelings deep inside.

you have to live with a heart that never recovers.