textbook exception; z.hao

one

" just a textbook masochist "

huang hera

acid walls filled with memories longed forgotten, i had no reconciliation of these pictured polaroids and no-named wishes, but to them i probably meant something, right? buried in between piles of files and dusty parchment of certificates. achievements after achievements, head spinning in a spiral of never-ending oblivion, thought of never after and evermore. their love came with expectations, it's love they admit foolishly to little old me. how naïve it must've been to be fooled by your own selfish desire, by whom shared the same flesh and blood as you were created into.

what if's lingering around these broken cobblestone on my way home. but home isn't the house i practically grew in, home isn't the bedroom i've spend more time on my desk rather than my lonely bed, dust recollection as if it's a trophy in disguised, what does home means anyway? objectively, home means residency, a place which these mundane human being live in permanently during the duration of their life.

but, poets wrote about home in the eyes of a perfect being, they wrote in a way which makes my heart frolic with even the slightest bit of cold fingers touching my bare skin. it's in the silently liking him from afar, it's the poetry i wrote with him in my mind all along, it's the guitar string being strung, trying to come up with a song, it's in the sheepishly giggles followed by "you're an idiot", it's the "i love you's" i've never got to say. home is the person who made my high school life a little bearable, but high school crushes doesn't last, the moment you step onto adulthood, they disappear right before your eyes as if promises of "let's stay together forever!" and "i can't live without you guys.." never happen.

perhaps, coming out undone and parting away is nature for us humans, still, my heart waver at the thoughts of what could've happened.

2017

giggles and laughter could heard from every corner of the four-walls room, students coming in and out of the classrooms as if it's embedded to the back of their head. stacks of papers which shows me my worth in this power hungry country, where social status is all that matters. i stand at the lowest level of the pyramid, and i guess that's why i had became starved by validation, an obstruction, my strength and independence, to my being enough. a guilty profuse, to feel even a tiny bit influential, eloquent to society one might say.

remember the term, "born with a silver spoon" ? i wasn't, in fact you could consider it's plastic instead, yellowing collar of school uniform, the brawling raging typhoons with nine p.m curfew, a seven years old's dreams i had to let go, stifled interest and religious guilt. i was never religious anyway— actually, i was once; until one point, i don't remember when but i stopped, perhaps it's my coming of age, wistful and harsh.

anyhow, the uplifting mood of this classroom didn't match the sewed-heart buried in the sternum of my chest. albeit, it didn't matter anyway, to the people in this room nor is it to me, i never really mind it, i'm content with the thought of loneliness, and of that romance doesn't sustain me as a person. or at least that's what i thought all these years. but then again, who cares about a seventeen years old words, classified as too young to know about this fucked up world but too old not to care, stuck in the middle of poverty with no future ahead of ones life. after all, i'm just a teenager.

"hera!" a screamed was heard from the doorway, wondering who's calling me although i knew that voice a little too well not to know. running towards me with panting breath, zhang hao; a certain brunette whom i despised. despised is a harsh word, to put it simply— his existence annoys me, just enough to make it worth the while studying in this hell-garnished, prison disguised as a place to learn.

"what is it this time?" a sigh was released right after, nonetheless he's tolerable at least, so i find myself not really caring of his childish behaviour most probably out of boredom. does he have nothing else to do?

"volunteering tomorrow," smiling he was, a cheeky grin i wish i could just wipe of off his picturesque face. how could i forget, a few weeks before he had put both of us in trouble which resulted in this volunteering works by the disciplinary committee.

my gaze fell back to the exam paper i'm reviewing on top of my desk. taking the courage to pick up the red pen, i drew an X on the question. swallowing the lump in my throat as i moved towards the next question. it was also wrong. i have never gotten this many wrong answer in the particular subject, i wonder what's wrong with me. had i been too careless with my studies?

hao chuckled at the sight "i could steal your place in rank, miss top student" i didn't think much about what he said, after all, feeding his boredom wouldn't do me any good. however, i am anxious of what could've happen.

"bother someone else if you're bored, i'm not wasting my time with you" a subtle glare i gave, adrenaline running through my head, countless thoughts running in circle as i break my gaze away from his. my carelessness cost me everything— you might think it's over exaggerated, perhaps it is. unwilling, i have to paid off my debt of my self-sacrificed parents who got me where i am now, it would be rude and burdensome not to care off their sincerity.

"nope!" he said with a sly smile as he sat on his assigned seat, how does it feel like to be able to do everything you ever wanted, without a care? my eyes follows his movements, how does he makes everything seems effortless, when i've gave up my youth? maybe, it's the jealousy talking, but then again who wouldn't fell inferior next to him?

his hair perfectly framing his ethereal facial structure, with glistening eyes of moonlight in summer night; the earthy tone of brown absorbing the ambient of the inly source of light at this moment, his beaming lips, often cascaded into thin line resembling the moon during mid-august; if i were to describe him in a way, i'd say he's the freshly-baked pastries in winter-morning, which ambience of light couldn't be seen except of his skin which reflected light, he's the greenery lakes an artist find his way towards, in search of a muse to be painted— either way, i loathe the indecipherable labyrinth in the pit of my stomach leading it's way to the barricade of my heart.

-he really is the child of moon.