We bumped into each other as I rushed my way through the stilted hallway. I was 5 minutes late to class, and my brain did not even register your presence until it made contact with my unassuming shoulder. You steadied me. And you could’ve just walked away. But maybe the world halted its orbit for us—just for a minute—and I took your tall figure in. You bared your full height awkwardly, limbs too long that didn’t know where to go. I wondered whether you recognised me before I did. I wondered whether you bumped into me purposefully. I wondered whether you had been waiting behind the pillar on the far side of the long room, just waiting for me to scamper down with negative five minutes to spare. Of course I knew that the Earth didn’t just stop. Those negative five minutes continued their constant roll, to six, to seven, and maybe it had turned past ten without checking with me first. Your arm had fallen back to the side of your body, and in your grimace I knew that you were pushing down the urge to fall back into old patterns. To throw in a remark of “Stop catastrophising. Come back to the present.” I saw your mouth moving in my mind’s eye. And dashed past you to a full class.

It was 11.12 p.m when your mother received the call, though it said 11.16 on the clock by the TV. If it had been the night before your mother would've told you on 03.12 at dawn, with the four hours different that separated you more than the ocean splayed far. Your grandfather died, your mother relayed the muffled voice to you; it had been quick. The night before he picked you up at the airport along with some ten other family members. You had dinner together, a hearty dinner where you had your first glass of wine. The most noble thing he did was to wait for you before he decided to die. You got ready to brace the stage: Change out of your satin night dress into a pair of sweatpants and a university hoodie from the dirty clothes pile. Do not wipe away sleep from your face; people misconstrue them as appropriately placed grief all the time. You savoured the hangover from the single glass of wine and wondered whether it might be your grandfather knocking at your head wanting to be let in. Mother would be waiting for you in the driveway, the sedan’s engine roaring to announce the death to whoever in this quiet neighbourhood would listen. When you walked out of the house, you noticed the dahlia flower on the pavement bloomed pink.

The nights of the first eighteen years of my life were spent on the bottom bunk of a pull out bed. The bottom bunk has always been firmer than its sibling. The surface stays warm even after a whole day without anything in contact with it. When I think back, the whole room might have been very warm all day. We never opened the windows, my sister and I. There was no reason to, for it opened up to the back of our house, overlooking the colourful clothes strewn in a pile that did not fit into our wardrobe. When I got home from school, my sister would already be curled up on the top bunk, and I would pull out the bottom bunk to join her. We would stay on that position until our parents arrived home from work, where we would press ourselves against each other instead in reminder of the familial ties shared between us. At night, I never used blankets—I would need to wait only until midnight or several moments before, where my sister has warmed up her body enough and in her slumber would kick her blankets until it rolled down in a heavy ball. In my slumber I would unravel it and have it cover my bare toes. When I visited home again on my summer break the bunk bed was cold. Mum told me that they just leave it out instead of pushing it in every morning, because the cats would sleep there—they would jump off just before sunrise. I couldn’t bring myself to sleep on the bottom bunk anymore.