Wei Ting’s Internal Monologue on the 20th of June, Occurring Between the Eleventh and Twelfth Hour of the Night
I’ve written a billet-doux for my amoureux, Ahn, and tonight is when I proclaim my unending love.
Two weeks ago, Ahn and I agreed to a secret rendezvous once the clock strikes twelve on the night it turns June 21st. Three days before that, she crafted with her very hands a necklace adorned with seashells. I couldn’t help but express my admiration for her artistic work. When she deemed it done, she sealed the necklace with a tidy knot. I whispered, “That’s beautiful. I can’t help but envy whoever is fortunate enough to receive this from you.” She looked at me… we looked into each other's eyes in what seemed like eternity. In her eyes I saw everything–the universe, endless stars–and only in the reflection of her gaze did I ever truly believe I was beautiful. She then smiled and draped the necklace around my neck, the colourful shells settling themselves on my collarbones.
Had I died at that moment, I would have met my end with a heart at peace. “It’s beautiful,” she said as she admired–what was it that she admired? Me or the necklace? Assuming that it was the necklace, I replied, “Only because it carries with it the beauty of the artist.”
She only smiled at this before collecting more shells. It was only fifteen minutes to four, but the sun was already tucking itself away, slowly sinking into the ocean. I fidgeted with the shells around my neck while I listened to the waves crash against the shore.
When the sky finally turned into a shade that was neither navy or indigo, I got up to look for my adoration. She had wandered too far from where I was, and her figure resembled more a speck of dust than a human. When I was running towards her, the shells jingled a pleasant sound. I murmured against her ear (if I didn’t, she would hear only the sound of the waves), that it was dangerous for us to be out here so late, in which she agreed. Amidst the nighttime fog we strolled until we reached her house. We bid our goodbyes then.
I only wish that I could have kissed her.
Three days later, as I mentioned, I asked her to meet with me. Originally, I had intended to surprise her with dinner, or a craft of my own as a symbol of thanks. But I decided I would–I had to confess. There’s only so long a person can go, burying their feelings deep within the heart’s hidden chambers. So, “Under the weeping willow,” I said, “Meet me when midnight arrives. By then, it would be the twenty-first of June. I will be waiting for you there.” She took me into her embrace, and although the wind was howling, I only heard the sound of our hearts beating. “I will be there: under your favourite willow the minute it turns June twenty-first.” A deep blush spread across my face from ear-to-ear. I thanked the night sky for providing darkness, for she did not notice.
Later that same night, I set aside some time to gather my feelings in a billet-doux. Admittedly, skill in the art of writing escapes me–more so poetry. I took a step back, looked at what I wrote to see if it was good enough. I cringed, and dared not say it out loud. Reduced to a crumple, it joined the thirteen other discarded letters piling up in my little bin. Gripping my pencil, I start again, opening with “My Beloved Ahn,” in the most unsightly cursive you’ve ever seen. In contrast to my chicken scratch, Ahn had beautiful cursive handwriting. Back in highschool, her friends would praise her handwriting, musing compliments like: “You write like a founding father!” (whatever that meant) and “You should sell your handwriting to typographers .”
Ahn Syrtin’s Internal Monologue on the 20th of June, Occurring Between the Eleventh Hour of the Night and First Hour of the Day