Episode 2: Under the Same Roof
I was writing another letter for him, like I always do.
Another letter that will sleep quietly in the box under my bed, heavy with memories that refuse to fade.
Today, my pen drags me back to the days we spent growing up together. Days when life was simple, when laughter echoed louder than worries.
We were in the same class.
We sat apart, but our eyes never lost contact. I tried hard to understand what he was saying while blinking his almond-shaped eyes. "What is he trying to say?" I wondered, my own eyes locked on his.
The teacher noticed.
A sharp sting followed as the stick hit my hand for being inattentive. My eyes burned—not just from pain but from embarrassment. He saw everything. He saw me cry.
After class, he came to me with a small bottle of water, his brows knitted in worry.
"Why were you inattentive?" he asked softly.
"I wasn't," I whispered. "I knew what she was saying."
He opened the bottle and sprinkled water on my palms with his tiny fingers. Those sprinkles worked like magic, cooling the pain as if they were medicine. Then he said, with all the seriousness a child could hold,
"Don't be inattentive. I don't like it when anyone hits you. Promise me you'll remember this for the rest of your life. Pinky promise?"
He held out his pinky, his little face scrunching up into funny expressions to make me laugh. And I did. I smiled through the leftover tears and sealed our pinky fingers together. A silent promise, stronger than words.
We took the same extra classes.
We did the same homework.
But you always tried to act smarter than me.
"I know the rules of math better than you," you said proudly.
"Then why do you always get a B in math?" I teased.
You paused, a little embarrassed, before asking me for help for the first time. And so we solved the problems together, one by one, side by side. While others took eleven months to finish one math book, we completed ours in five and spent the rest of the months revising.
We were a great team. Weren't we?
We jumped on the same bed with music playing from the TV. You always loved silly, childish songs, while I was born loving love songs.
"Let's dance now!" you shouted, spinning in excitement.
We danced until your favorite song ended. And through all that laughter and clumsy steps, I never once felt uncomfortable when your hands touched mine, or when your little fingers brushed my shoulder or my waist. I only felt safe. So safe.
Because whenever you were near, the world felt soft.
Untouchable.
Like nothing bad could ever reach me.
And now I wonder… did you ever feel that safe with me too?