Random Chaos, Really

Do you care?

It's a fleeting goodbye; not a tearjerker, but tinged with the reminder that maybe this is the last time you and I see each other in years.

The years will pass with us remaining comfortable acquaintances— those who know of each other's likes and dislikes but firmly avoid any correspondence that would warrant a label. I will wait, as unbearable as it may be; like Kazuko— from Dazai Osamu's "The Setting Sun"— lamented, "To wait, 90% of human life is just living in waiting."

You bid goodbyes to everyone present and descended downstairs with your family, and I hung onto the handrails. I wanted every single look I could have at you, since that's all I could have— the last scraps a beggar gets from his old shelter which is finally closing down.

As you go, my folk and I depart to our balcony to see your folk and you out. Why, we are "family friends", aren't we? (Notice how I seperate us from our families, no matter how far apart physically, it's "you" and "I" in the same sentence. I like to think things about you like this.)

Everyone is waving at each other. You turned around and gave a small nod. Everyone is still waving. So am I. You are slowly moving forward. Away. Everyone has stopped waving now. Nobody is looking back towards the balcony and no one from the balcony is looking towards the people departing.

You don't care. You don't care. You dont care. You don't care. You don't–

At the last moment possible, you turn around— unnecessarily extra turn, if I may add— search of something— someone— and I can feel the honey of your eyes melt on my skin. Your right hand shoots up as high as it can go, and you smile and wave

(Your sweatshirt hood is on your head. Baby blue. The same colour shawl I have draped. This was not deliberate on my part, but it made me happy nonetheless.)

And in the high of your wave I feel my face smiling wide, my hand shooting up to wave back, my heart beating fast, my mind obsessively thinking, hoping, that you turned, you care, you do care. You keep your eyes towards me(?) from that point on as long as I can see.

It's the 3rd of January today.

The dead of winter. Its bleak, harrowing, melancholic winter, and cold. The coldest day this season.

It's the 3rd of January today.

The sun has not risen in 3 days, since the new years, and you are leaving.

It's the 3rd of January today.

You turn around to smile and wave at me.

It's the 3rd of January today.

The sun emerges from the fog in middle of the afternoon, and the first sun rays of the year hit my side, on the very balcony I am standing on.

It's the 3rd of January today.