Ryan Huynh

Near Central Station, people move faster.  

He’s walking. Picks up a dollar from the floor. Puts it in his pocket. Been thinking recently about keeping. How something isn’t yours, and after some collision, it is. 

He texts his friends that night, “can anyone help me move tomorrow?” 

It’s impromptu. He is nervous no one will respond. 

“Sure.” 

It’s David. They’re not close, but that’s okay. He would’ve preferred someone he considers better company. It’ll be hard to keep up conversation. 

Lee is standing inside his new living room.  

“What’s wrong?” says David.
Lee’s staring vacantly. It feels like a symptom of something deeper. 

David drops the boxes he’s carrying and hugs him from behind. That’s nice of him. 

Lee says, “I’ve been dreaming about this day since I was 16.” 

The next day, it’s Lee’s birthday. He’s embarrassed to host in his new apartment. He doesn’t want his friends to see that he’s sleeping on the floor. 

But they show up with gifts. That’s nice of them. 

Two are carrying a sofa through the door. Others bring plates and orange IKEA lamps that look like doughnuts. 

His mum calls, but he decides he’ll answer later. 

David takes a photo of him on a digital camera. 

They do everything together. They eat. They sleep. They wake. They clean. They walk. They laugh, often. They share the same bed. They begin to share the same dreams. They make the same memories. They become each other’s routine.  

And in this way, the days pass very quickly. 

It’s midnight.  

They’re on their phones scrolling through an automated algorithm of short-form content. This late, Lee’s page turns sentimental.  

He says, “I miss my sister.” 

David says, "Where is she now?” 

“I don’t know actually.” 

“Is she alive?” 

“Yes, of course. We’re just older now. Don’t talk as much.”  

“Call her tomorrow.” 

“Maybe. I think she changed her number. She doesn’t pick up.” 

“What about your parents? Are you guys…?” 

“Not really.” 

“That’s okay.” 

“It’s not, though; she’s sick.” 

“Your sister?” 

“My mum. She’s got a tumour in her brain. Near the spine. They’re monitoring it for the next six months.” 

He doesn’t know what to say here. 

“I signed the lease after she told me.”  

He doesn’t know what to say here either. 

It’s walking. That first year. 

David’s working a fast-food job. Just something to get by. He has bigger dreams. Somewhere in the business district. But that doesn’t discredit how much fun he has now. The people here are good. He laughs with them in between customers; his ribs are often sore. 

Lee is writing again. He’s had dreams about it: author talks and all. He borrows money from his mum, who sends it when he requests. His manuscript is changing now; he’s adding things every day. There's something giving him inspiration. 

“At 16 I thought I’d do it.” 

Lee is silent. Scared to say what he thinks David is talking about. 

“I was in the kitchen. Thinking about it. I took a few steps to the drawer and stopped. I was stuck in the middle of the kitchen like an idiot. I couldn’t move. If I could, I think I would’ve done it. I think I would’ve done it.”  

“I don’t know what to say.”  

“It’s okay. I went back to sleep and woke up the next morning earlier than my alarm and went to school and saw you. We weren’t close back then, but you said my name in a way that made me want to stay.” 

Lee doesn’t know what to say. 

“I’ve never told anyone this before.” 

He finally finds the right words: “I’m glad you’re here.” 

“I love you,” David says. 

“It comes so naturally to you.”  

“What?” 

“When you love something. You just say it.” 

“I’ve never thought of it like that.” 

***

It’s been 2 years of running. It’s Lee’s birthday. David takes him out to a simple lunch. Small gesture, but he knows it’s what Lee wants. Something about the quiet moments. 

In between bites of a sandwich, Lee says, “I can’t remember anything without you.” 

David gets the impulse to take a photo and so he does. “It’s the way it looks just taken”, he thinks, viewing it in the mini-display screen, “it’s the closest I can get to holding memory in my hands.” 

Lee says, “I’m sorry I missed your birthday.” 

David says, “It’s okay.”  

“I was busy writing.” 

“I know.” 

“I’m sorry.” 

“I know.” 

“What can I do?” 

“I don’t know.” 

4 years through the flash of a camera. David wakes up and realises that he doesn’t want this anymore. There’s no way to justify it or explain it. It’s something he doesn’t even understand himself. He just knows it's a symptom of something deeper. 

That night, David is unusually silent at dinner. He keeps thinking Lee can read his mind. He drops his fork on the floor, “fuck”. 

In bed, Lee asks, “What’s wrong?” 

***

By morning, everything is in boxes.  

David said some things he shouldn’t have, like how Lee is fundamentally a bad person for abandoning his mum given that she is fucking dying. Lee said that he should’ve done it at 16, that he’s an idiot for believing lunch was good enough for his fucking birthday. 

They both know they need to apologise. 

David loads everything into his car. He comes back in one last time, even though he doesn’t need to. “To say goodbye”, he thinks, “I’ll say goodbye.” 

“Hey, I’m gonna go now.” 

“Okay.” 

“Bye.” He waits. “Bye,” he says again. And then he leaves. 

Lee is bitter. He wakes bitter. He sleeps bitter. He tastes his own bitterness in his food. He can see in the mirror. His eyes are heavy and ugly. He can see it in himself when he asks his mum for money, ‘$50?’ without words or thanks. She sends $500 by accident. He doesn’t send it back. He finds that everything bleeds into his writing. His two characters go on a lunch on their birthday, a different cafe though; they fight in their living room instead of the kitchen. 

David works so that he doesn’t have to think. He picks up more night shifts. He wakes up on his own. He’s been sleeping less. Wakes up to no one there. On the train, he catches himself crying. He hasn’t in a long time, so it’s a hard emotion to recognise. He wishes that he didn’t take so little photos because now they contain everything: all these memories, and with it all this pain. He considers deleting them.  

In this way, the days for both of them pass very quickly. 

5 years more of swimming, separately. 

Lee gets lunch with someone. They kiss on the cheek and hold hands all the time. They have a running joke that they are tricking the general public into thinking they are together. She also likes men. They talk about the whole relationship, about time passing and the memories left behind. How he feels like now he has too many of them to contain. They dilate and expand in ways that are even hard for Lee to explain himself; he finds writing them down like catching a stray animal, trying to placate its hunger lest he risk it running away. He can’t seem to remember the details. 

David doesn’t talk to anyone about it. He could only ever talk to Lee like that. He doesn’t know if he’ll find it again. He knows that he has been irrevocably changed. He can’t tell you how or pinpoint exactly what. He gets frustrated with himself when he tries explaining it to his friends because it never comes out right. He can see it on their faces. All the years go missing. But his photos capture everything. He’s surprised by how his feelings change every time he looks at them. They’re like an animal he can’t seem to hold down; he quickly flicks through that section of his gallery. They’re frozen with too many details.  

It’s raining at Central Station but people still move quickly. 

David takes the metropolitan train from the business district to the State Library. He’s finished happy hour with his suited-up colleagues. He is now late.  

A writer is giving a talk today. He walks into the event, closing his umbrella, and takes a seat somewhere near the back. The author is halfway through answering a question: 

“–and I think the biggest mystery of love is trying to figure out whether it is routine or romance. You entertain the question that you could be doing this exact rhythm of life with anyone else and it is over. The answer is yes. We are easy creatures like that. I think we have two choices. Stay and delude yourself that you can love, or leave and believe that you can love again. Both aren’t great. Both leave you very lonely. You spend a long time weighing the pros and cons. Eventually, one outweighs the other, only marginally, though. I had visions of a life with someone once, though those years seem far away now. I won’t be ready for whoever’s next. They may not be ready for me. That’s okay. You realise, too, that no one is ready for anything. Love is this long, long journey. It takes road, river and rail. It takes walking, swimming and running. By the end of the novel, both protagonists aren’t bitter. They just acknowledge that all this time and memory has passed, and that they both now have a drunk story to tell. I don’t know anything. I’m just a writer. But I can’t seem to stop thinking about it. Love. I can’t seem to forget it either. We can’t keep anything, you know. I can’t keep anything, not even you.” 

And when he says this, he’s looking right at David.