Everything I Never Say ✓

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We were a funny pair, you and I. Always bickering and shoving and snatching, but also always with each other.

We'd bring the roof down with our screaming, but it was still under the same roof, yeah? We were that attached to one another.

Maybe it was because the two of us were very much alike as kids? Impatient, unsociable, and very picky when it came to making friends. So, really, all we had were each other. I guess, in a way, you were my first friend.

I wonder, even now, if that ever occurred to you—if it ever occurs to you.

But I doubt you frequent the path down the memory lane of our childhood as often as I do.

You're here, in the present, living in the moments that come before you while I try, try, try and fail to bring my heart back from there, where I'd lost it to you in the past.

And it is in the past that I live. Because of that, I'm fairly certain you no longer remember the moments between us that are still a priority in my mind.

I remember this one time our mothers wanted to meet up and hang out somewhere, bringing us along to that huge new mall they'd just opened—the one with all the branded stores, impressive food court, and a massive cinema that had twenty or so screens.

I was five then, I think—give or take a few months. And you—you were about to turn nine in another two months. I kind of like the four year age gap between us; not too much, not too little. Four was perfect. Is perfect. Will always be perfect.

"I want corn on the cob," you were telling your mum. We were entering the food court after watching Peter Pan. The ending of the movie made me sad; I wanted Pan to stay.

That was then, Daniel. I understand Pan's decision now.

I'm no longer sad he chose to fly away, but if the script could be rewritten and the movie remade, I will want for him to stay despite all his reasoning.

Because not growing up sounds nice.

But growing old with someone sounds nicer.

"Daniel, there's no corn on the cob here," your mother, Vivian, was saying. "How about a burger and fries? I'll even ask them to add extra cheese to the bun."

"No," you shook your head adamantly. And then you folded your arms across your chest. A little spoilt back then, you were.

I don't remember how I felt all that much about you making a fuss; whether I was hungry, tired, annoyed we weren't ordering yet, irritated we weren't seated at a table yet. I don't remember me being there even, Daniel. I really don't.

But if I have this memory, it's because I was there right? Then why can I not recall how I felt? How I reacted? What I wanted to eat?

Then again, that says a lot doesn't it? Thinking back now, I'm pretty sure I felt annoyed at you. Frustrated. Angry, even. Because I also remember you throwing this huge tantrum and us having to leave the food court and go looking for a diner or restaurant or someplace that served those godforsaken corn on the cob you seemed to be craving so much.

Yes. I was definitely angry at you.

It takes time, though, for me to recall my emotions, my words, my thoughts. And sometimes nothing on my part is concrete and solid. Sometimes, I'm just filling in the gaps and holes with the most likely possibility.

But I have to fill in nothing when it comes to you.

Daniel, there are no gaps nor holes that need filling-up with possibilities when it comes to you.

I remember, Daniel. I remember.

This heart of mine does not let me forget.

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