It was Sept. 8. New semester, new school. Goodbye Collingwood, hello St. Georges. I should be feeling excited, shouldn’t I?
At Collingwood school has already begun, but aristocratic life at St. Georges is laidback. One week into September and I am still at home, watching the clock on the wall. 8:30, 8:40, 8:45… 12:00, it’s time for lunch. The metallic chime of the clock reached my ears, though I barely registered it. Like a daydreamer I fancied If I were still at Collingwood, I would be sitting in my chair studying mathematics now, though I couldn’t concentrate on the worksheet. On a whim, I took out the dust-covered yearbook from last year, a book that I have never ever looked at since the last day at Collingwood, for no other reason than sheer nostalgia. I kept flipping the pages till I saw the Grade 9 group photo. I stopped turning, my eyes glued to the smiling faces of my friends.
It was yesterday once more–everything came back to me so vividly in my memory—only in my memory—I let out a sigh. Gazing for a moment, I closed the book rapidly with tears dripping all over the page. I began to remember more. It came to that ever since then, I had not listened to my favourite playlist even once, because every single tune hurt. I checked WhatsApp to see if anything came up in the class group chat. But there was nothing, except a lone ex-member having a sentimental trip in an empty space. The group was quiet as the grave. Very well, they had forgotten all about me. Perhaps it was all in my head: we never got on so well after all. Yet just when I straightened up my back with a glitter in my eye, a message popped up: “How is the first day of school?” I began typing a reply, but my finger froze in mid air. It was not meant for me. I was here. I could type a single word in the group chat and greet them with warmth, but I dared not. I felt the distance, at once so near and so far away. From where I live, I can still see the mountain where Collingwood is, but the place seems so distant now–I could neither catch the familiar scent nor hear the familiar sound again. I held up my hand as if to touch the mountain across the vast space between us, attempting to recapture a little of that warm feeling. All of a sudden, a gust swept into my hand, shattered my last unreachable fantasy. “For sure they have forgotten me.” I murmured to myself. “They have forgotten me.” This was both the last confirmation in my heart and the denial. I took one last look out of the window and went back to work since I had a test next week. I had to shake off this obsession that wrapped around me like a chain, leaving me gasping for air. But I had lost my focus, and I scolded myself for being so vulnerable like an exquisite piece of glass. Lately, I have changed my profile picture since one single glimpse to a profile with memory makes my heart ache. “Just tell me God, when can I feel better?” I murmured to myself again.
All of a sudden, Michael sent me a message: “How has the new school been so far?” Michael was my best friend at Collingwood, but we hadn’t been in touch since I left. I could no longer hold back my tears at that moment. The tears spilled all over and mottled my worksheet. I rushed into the bathroom, covering my mouth to stay silent so my parents wouldn’t hear, while letting out a deep, choked sob torn from my heart. My face started to flush and my choking voice couldn’t be suppressed. Michael would have laughed if he knew a message from him made me cry for so long. The thought stirred up a complex aversion in my heart, and I almost hated myself for losing control. I tried to reason with myself that I was seeking a better future rather than trapping myself in the familiar. At that moment, a voice cried out from within me: “I
wanna go back to Collingwood, I wanna go back home. Please!” Before, every tear of mine was met with an echo—an echo that provided solutions and understanding. But now, the echo is gone, leaving a huge black hole and a profound sense of hollowness. I closed my eyes, starting to recall my life once I was in Collingwood. It’s the first time I’d invested all of my emotions, anticipation, and effort into a little warm family. It’s the first time I have ever since attempted to make a deep correlation with others. It’s my first try. “Maybe this is what adults call growth, and the price of growth is loss of innocence as they say.” But I’d prefer not to grow, so that I could still feel these intense feelings. If I did grow up, this might well be the first and last time when I cried from my heart.
Grasping the pen between shaky fingers, I wrote down a line on my worksheet. The most valuable memory always comes from your first try.
By Kingsley Wu
Kingsley Wu is currently in grade 10 at St. George’s School in Vancouver, BC, Canada. He enjoys creative writing and his favorite genres are poetry, flash fiction, and sci-fi. He likes to write about people finding who they are and what they belong to as well as humans connecting with each other and how science relates to humans. He also has an interest in robotics, math, songwriting, and filmmaking.
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