[ 8 ]

I'VE BECOME THE OCEAN THAT SURROUNDS YOUR ISLAND

 * * *

Track of the day: Oceans - Seafret

 * * *

Irene squints as she makes her way out of the university library. The spring sun is strong. It’s almost sunset yet despite it retiring deep within the horizon, it is still blinding as if it’s trying to create a remembrance that it’s been there once, up in the sky.

“Hey.”

Irene knows that voice. She stops looking at the sky and faces towards the sound.

“Hey,” Irene answers back. It’s strange. Irene doesn't expect Wendy to be here. Not within the university campus.

“More reading, eh?” Wendy asks, flicking the ashes on the nearby bin meant for cigarettes. She moves towards Irene and tries to take the books from Irene’s hands but Irene evades her swiftly enough.

“What brings you here?” It’s a Friday. Irene normally doesn’t see Wendy on a Friday.

“Can I not be here?”

Irene smirks. Wendy’s tendency to deflect questions in need of answering is there again, kicking in. Her defence mechanism. “It doesn’t matter,” Irene says and leaves it at that. She wants to walk off for now, to shut off her growing interest for Wendy, just for today. There’s too much that needs sorting out. She needs to make a draft for her paper, find references and resources. Priorities must come first.

Besides, Wendy is just going to leave again, just like the other day. When Irene thinks she is getting closer to Wendy, Wendy distances herself. It doesn’t help that Wendy approaches her first. What was that about?

“Where are you off to?” Wendy follows on and walks besides Irene. She’s an insistent one.

“I don’t think there’s a point in telling you.”

Wendy stays quiet for a brief moment and that bothered Irene, as if she’s said something that offended her. She feels like she’s walking on a thin rope, balancing herself as she crosses over, as she has conversations with Wendy. One wrong move and she’s gone, fallen over to the ground.

“I’m sorr—”

“Let me carry some of that for you,” Wendy suggests.

Irene’s too flustered to think and react so she lets Wendy take some of her books. She mouths a thanks afterwards. A breathy one. Silly brain. Silly heart, beating so erratically over something so small.

“So, will you tell me where we’re off to now?”

Irene looks at Wendy then shakes her head. “Not if you tell me why you’re here in the first place.”

“Why are you so curious?”

Irene smirks again. She should’ve expected questions instead of answers. That’s Wendy. She’s made of questions.

“It’s Friday,” Irene tries to explain. “You’re usually not around on a Friday.”

Wendy puts her hand to her chin as if to mimic someone deep in thought. Then she drops her hand and looks at Irene plainly. “I live in this town. I go to places. Sometimes, the places I end up going to are places like this.”

Irene raises an eyebrow. “Places like this?”

“Quiet ones. Ones where they make you think.”

Irene assumes that the library is just one of the places Wendy visits. That there are other ‘quiet ones’ she goes to. Places she disappears off to whenever she’s not at the pub on Wednesday nights, whenever she’s not by Irene’s side, walking together on their way home.

“So, it happens that you’re here when I just came out of the library.”

“A strange coincidence, right?”

Irene scoffs. “Yeah, sure.”

Wendy smiles. At that instant, Irene suddenly recalls her mother’s words. When her mother had told her that there’s more to life than just books and words and writing. That beyond her fictions there is something genuine that exists, something that she needs to cherish because it would and could change Irene’s perspective on life.

Irene wasn’t sure what her mother meant then. She was barely eleven at the time. What did kids know?

But now, at the age of twenty, she finally understands. As Wendy smiles in front of her, the sunset’s orange rays against her, coating her with a beautiful glow, warm and tender, Irene finally knows what her mother meant.

“Why are you always so busy?” Wendy asks. “Every time I come and talk to you, you always have a book in your hand or you’re always off to write some paper.”

As soon as Irene has heard it, she thinks it ridiculous. She stops walking and faces Wendy. “How about you? You’re not busy yet you’re always off somewhere, just in the nick of time, as if you’re doing it to dodge my questions. Where do you really go?”

Wendy stares at her blankly. Irene is not sure if Wendy is surprised with what she had just asked or if she had found it offensive. Throughout the times Irene has gotten to know Wendy, she has realised that Wendy is very fragile, sensitive. One wrong touch, one wrong remark and she seems to break into pieces. And this silence shows that Irene has said something she shouldn’t have said. She feels an instant regret and she finds it unfair. How can Wendy just get away with what she does? Showing up out of nowhere, bluntly throwing sugar-coated words then when Irene entertains them, when she gets pulled in, Wendy leaves her hanging at the edge, unsure of what to do. Wendy teases her, entices her then when Irene is hooked, Wendy pulls away.

Irene is annoyed. She wants to stop this—whatever it is. She wants to stop her growing feelings. She wants to ignore Wendy, dislike her. But no matter how hard she tries, she can’t. Once she sees it, even a glimpse, of the pain in Wendy’s eyes, the sorrow that layers them whenever her words trigger something, she can’t help but forget all the frustration she feels for Wendy.

Just like now.

Irene is desperate. She can’t help but be. She pleads and she hopes Wendy would let her in this time.

“It would be nice if you could just tell me something, Wendy,” she says. “I thought we were…,” and though the next word seems to get choked up within , she swallows it and continues, “…friends.”

Irene is not sure what she really saw then. It seems as if Wendy is on the verge of tears. Her eyes trembled and her brows knit and the instant that Irene has seen it, she feels her hand move, gently, as if in slow motion, reaching out to Wendy, trying to smooth the lines of despair on her face and Irene hopes that this time, she’ll reach her.

“I—I have to go,” Wendy says, giving the books back to Irene and Irene watches as her hands gets stopped.

She knows it then. That she’s going to be left hanging again.

“Wait—don’t go,” she calls out. “Don’t go, Wendy.”

But Irene’s words fall through deaf ears and she’s left there, howling to a wind too fast for her to reach.

 * * *

There is something alluring every time Wendy plays the piano. The way her hands deftly move as fluid as a water flowing through a stream. The way Irene gets swept away, taken towards the ocean where she can’t help but feel breathless each time the notes blend with each other.

Irene is plunged deep.

One note at a time.

Then together.

She feels the rush of water that chokes her up, drowning her until she’s left speechless. Then it resonates within her, echoing against the water. It hurts, she realises. She feels the pain in each key, causing a tremble in the flow, disturbing its peaceful waters. She’s not sure if she’s the only one who feels it, the pain that Wendy transcribes through her music.

The applause brings Irene back to dry land. She feels Joy lean towards her in a whisper. “You seem deep in thought, my friend.”

Irene stands up straight, moving away from the counter she was leaning on earlier. “I’m not,” she denies.

Joy gives her that look. The look Irene has become familiar with since she has started talking to Wendy. That look of suspicion. But tonight, Joy doesn’t brood over it. Surprisingly.

“Do you know the pub is closing down this Friday?” Joy says instead and it comes as a shock to Irene, even though it is something to be expected. The pub barely gets any customers. The place is rickety, as if its walls are slowly crumbling, the paint peeling itself from them and it seems as if no matter the weather or the temperature, there is a humidity that clings to the air, making it clammy and damp.

But Irene still asks, “What? Why?”

“The owner wants to retire. He’s moving back to the countryside.”

“Then is he selling this place?”

Joy crosses her arms. “Well, not the place exactly, but the land. This pub is going to get demolished.”

Somehow, Irene feels a bit saddened by it. She’s grown a liking to this place despite its miserable atmosphere and its customers that always get difficult whenever they get drunk. Besides, it’s the only place where she can see Wendy perform, where she can feel as if she’s getting to know Wendy, getting closer to her, through her music.

“In any case, by next week, we’ll be jobless,” Joy says.

“Oh no… I have to look for a new job.”

“Yeah and it’s quite hard to look for a job at this time of the year.”

“Have you found one?” Irene asks, hoping that Joy has found one and that she’ll be willing to let Irene tag along.

Joy frowns. It’s enough of an answer for Irene. “No, unfortunately. And I don’t think I’ll be looking for one. My parents don’t want me to work the rest of this school year.” She must’ve seen the dejection in Irene’s face because she says, “Sorry, my friend. We won’t be work buddies anymore.”

Irene shakes her head. “It’s okay.”

The rest of her shift dragged. As soon as Wendy has left, everyone else has too. There isn’t much to do with no customers around. Irene must’ve wiped the tables three times for the rest of the hours she was there despite them not being used. Joy, on the other hand, kept playing with her phone. It’s not really a surprise. That’s Joy. Always so carefree.

By ten in the evening, she and Joy leave the pub. They say their farewells and head on their own way. Irene walks by herself to the bus stop and as she reaches it, she sees Wendy, sitting down on the bench in the bus shed, on one of her hands a cigarette while the other hand is massaging her knee.

Irene slowly approaches Wendy and sits next to her.

“Hey,” Irene greets.

Wendy doesn’t answer. She instead takes a whiff of her cigarette, letting the smoke she exhales be her greeting instead.

Irene notices that Wendy has stopped massaging her knee. Irene wants to ask Wendy why she was doing it and why she stopped as soon as Irene greeted her. But Irene knows the more she prods, the more Wendy deters. So she keeps quiet.

For now, anyway.

“Did you know the pub is closing down?” Irene asks. Irene is not the type to dislike silence but when she has none of her books to accompany her, she finds herself hating it.

Again, the smoke answers for Irene.

“I have to go and look for a new job,” Irene says. “I’m not really sure where to begin,” She laughs awkwardly afterwards, partly because of the silence, partly because she feels absurd talking to the air since Wendy is not answering her.

Irene wonders why Wendy has been so quiet. There are times when Wendy exudes this melancholic aura, as if clouds of gloom shroud the light that exists within her and Irene is sure there is one there. Because at other times, she’s exuberant, expressing her opinions, her views about the world. Times when her quirkiness comes out. Times when Irene would find herself in awe as if looking at a star being born, shedding light slowly, bit by bit, yet getting intense as the moment passes by.

Maybe something has happened. Or maybe it’s what happened the Friday before. When Irene asked all those questions. When she seemingly pushed Wendy to the edge, away from her.

Irene feels a guilt growing, so she starts, “About Friday…” she says, then she stops. She can’t help but to.

Because suddenly she feels a weight on her shoulder.

Irene stays still, afraid that if she moves, the weight on her shoulder would move too. She’s getting dragged again. Into the ocean she goes, where she feels herself catching her breath. She’s suddenly conscious about the heaving of her chest and whether Wendy has noticed it. And more than that, can Wendy hear it? The excessive beating of Irene’s heart?

Then Wendy speaks for the first time that night. “You can work where I work at.”

Irene gulps. As each second ticked by, she feels her shoulder get heavier and heavier, as if her shoulder has just started to feel and Wendy’s weight is boring that into her. She manages to respond though. “Sorry?”

Irene notices that Wendy has put out her cigarette because this time, her question isn’t answered by a smoke, but instead of Wendy’s words, Wendy’s own voice. “They’re hiring people. You can go and apply.”

“B-But why?” Irene asks. Really, a pathetic attempt at concealing herself being flustered.

The bus comes then but neither of them move. They watch it as it drives away, Irene still stiff and frozen.

“You said you needed a job.”

So? Irene thinks. Irene hasn’t really considered that Wendy cared—would care. Wendy is the type of person that prefers to exist on her own. A sole island in the middle of nowhere.

That’s what Irene thought. But then Wendy has said something. Something that takes Irene aback.

“Plus, I want you there,” Wendy says, almost a whisper.

And Irene feels once more the ocean drag her further, deeper, and closer. Closer to that island.

Another bus comes again and another but they remain still, Irene floating along the ocean that surrounds Wendy.

 * * *

A/N: I've recently discovered this song and fell instantly in love with it. I also felt that it fits so well with this story. Honestly, I feel that sometimes I could've written this story better because I really like the concept for this fic: Chasing a butterfly but continuously failing to. And I don't really know what I was thinking in some of the chapters when I wrote them. I guess I just thought 'Oh, this moment would be nice to see' and so I write it but then somewhere in between I lost the essence of some of the characters' nature and the whole plot. I should've planned this better. But anyway, what's done is done. I guess I'll just take it as a learning experience.