Chapter Text
I really like how Jean’s hair smells, or his general scent.
The fragrance is deep yet still subtle, a little sweet but a whole lot natural, just like the smell of fairly heated tree sap or burnt star anise.
I think it’s the mixture of his shampoo, a little of body mist, with or without detergent’s smell, and most importantly, his sweat. How can I know, you ask? Because I myself did some serious research! With the wit of a veteran detective-spy novel reader, firstly, I smoothly pried some details about his shampoo with the most genuine reason of “my hair feels like straw these days and which shampoo do you use to get that natural-silky-no-wax-commercial-level type of hair like that?”. Secondly, once there was a Bath and Body Works’ Legend body spray rolling out of his bag when he accidentally dropped it sideway on the floor the other day and I gracefully helped pick it up for him, successfully gathered information without being suspected. Finally, I may or may not have tested every product in the men cosmetic and fragrance isle of two closest department stores from his apartment to definitively conclude the final recipe.
Unfortunately, no further findings were elicited, and the combination of the first two ingredients fell short: quite similar but too poignant and artificial. So, I figured it must be due to his natural body smell that the scent turns out differently, so pleasant and alluring.
Well, the first time I find something quite as satisfying as running a code smoothly.
That’s why I take every chance (which I have plenty) when I stand close behind him (naturally – of course, and not obviously of my own free will – of course) to enjoy the scent, such as when we queue for picking up food from the cafeteria or when we are in the elevator before and after work. A good thing is that our company demands employees to work on site for confidentiality purposes, that's why I can see him whenever I feel like. But from time to time, I wonder if he finds the fact that we come across each other nearly every day outside the cubicle, (even on some weekends at the coffee shop) a strange thing because I will never admit that’s intentional. Or maybe he simply thinks that’s what colleague-best friends usually do. And I am more ok with that explanation.
And the fact that I am a few centimeters taller makes things even easier, because my nose levels perfectly with the top part of his mousy brown hair.
Just like that, being in his personal circle (not too uncomfortably close – of course), quietly inhaling, and simpering.
He never even notices.
I know this for the longest time possible.
This revelation has been smothering my brain and quenching my heart at the same time. Like seeing your 2 hours of rendering a cute NPC cat in the background of a fiery battlefield go unnoticed.
There is this strange tingling sensation in my hands sometimes. I wonder what it is about.
Wait, let’s start with my first introduction, shall we?
Hi! My name is Marco Bodt, and I am a Game Programmer for Rose Tech. Corporation.
There is an inside terminology in our company, which is Ground; each employee can be ranked with this “Ground” along with the normal position in a normal company hierarchy. Since Rose Tech. has a tradition of culling out the incompetent but persistent every 2 years and hiring new employees to fill in the vacancies. The higher the number of Grounds, the more exterminations one has survived, the more years one has spent in the company, which means the more proficient in the work procedures of this place. That’s when you know where to ask for help.
So, I am Ground-zero.
It’s indeed a strange system, but it is needed, and it works somehow, so I have no issue with this. Working in Rose is already a far-fetched dream for many people; It is a really well-known, somewhat-quite-white company in the industry here in Trost, frankly speaking, so the fact that positions here are highly desirable is no surprise.
I didn’t even know what I’d done to get a chance to work here: a newly graduated with an oddly intermittent academic record, no experience in the field, except a small accomplishment as an award in a local coding competition. Pure luck, I guess, or I have to forever be grateful for the previous incompetent personnel in my current position. The interviewers did ask about the reason for my prolonged college period though, and I just told them the truth: having worked 2 part-time jobs to earn a living and school fees. They looked content with that answer.
Well, and that’s how I get to work in Rose. Sasha, also a Ground-zero comrade, is the first person I befriended so well with. She works as a receptionist on the ground floor. Just the first few days, and she already dragged me to try nearly every food shop around the block. Sasha is indeed a foodie for life, but somehow looks perfectly in shape (I should ask for tips on this). Then, Connie is the next to join the food tour. They were High School friends so we get along easily. He is a Ground-one Sound engineer, which is very cool, but a little deaf and mind wandering, which is funny. I was told that he once sat through a 1-hour lecture from his boss with barely any ego scratches. Impressive~
I got along well with nearly everyone during the first month, or at least I know that I can talk with anyone freely as a co-worker. Those I had conversed with were a little surprised at a not-so-usual specimen of coder like me, too outgoing, I guess. Maybe I was just trying to make the time I would stay here more pleasant, knowing that I would love to work here for a while. It’s important to make a good first impression, that’s for sure. People seemed nice though, and friendly. Yeah, except one particularly special person. That’s why I am intrigued.
Jean had survived the last culling before I came in, so he is my senior, although he is 1 year younger than me.
Well-kempt, frowning, reserved, and stoic.
And a distinct scent, it reminded me of the firewood back in my hometown in Jinae.
Actually, I first noticed him not in the company, but in the coffee shop, The Reboot, right next to the Rose Corp building. I still find it amusing to see its name beside a tech company. Did the owner have some intent in mind when opening it? But, yeah, the shop flourishes quite well, not to say too well, all thanks to sleep-deprived coders like me. Mostly us species order take-away or use the at-spot delivery because we are not behaving well outside our natural habitat, so it’s really unusual for an individual to sit in a public place at 8 in the morning for a coffee. But it was my first day at work, and I was a little too jittery and too early for work, so I just played it risky for us kind for once.
And there it was.
Amidst the morning hazy light lingering in the air, the insubstantial warmth of the beginning of springtime, and the constant buzzing sound of the coffee maker.
The scent seeped into my consciousness through the ambience marginal smell of coffee.
A soothing feeling, grounding, and tender.
“A medium cinnamon latte, with double coffee, 5 pumps of almond milk, and replace sugar with a tablespoon of maple syrup. And no cream, please.”
Whoaaa~ a little detailed order here for a morning brain, don’t you think? I thought to myself at the table by the window, nearest to the counter, without turning my head towards the customer, solely enjoyed the scent regardless. It worked on my restless temper.
And stuck in my peripheral brain for the rest of that day.
I knew how he smelled even before I knew him.
Now, when it comes to mind after a few months of befriending, I realize I unconsciously complement Jean even in my taste of drinks. My coffee order is really simple and consistent. Not at all like Jean. He usually changes his preferences, with a few modifications to match his own liking or even mood at that instance. I think not a lot of people are that unexpected and spontaneous, although this is simply about drinking habits. As a weirdly outgoing coder as I can be, I am a person of order and normalcy. So, it intrigues me when I see something extraordinary.
Like Jean~
Americano some days, Arabica some other, Oreo smoothies once or twice a while, but all accompanied with a long description of things I once had to write down when offering him to get his drink for him, but now maybe I have found some patterns.
He likes it sweeter in cold days, hot when he has already had breakfast, full-ice if there is condensed milk in and half ice if otherwise not hot, usually changing whole milk to oat milk or other nut milk because he likes the taste of them, and double coffee if he doesn’t have to work overtime that day because he will surely order another drink halfway through the day in order to survive more than 8 hours.
I can memorize them, too, now, after a few weeks of actually befriending Jean. But the coffee girl can't.
“…that’s for my friend and one black coffee for me. Please.”
“Thank you for your so kind intention in a simple order for us baristas, Marco.” She remembered my name, of course, depending on the frequency of our visits.
I usually have a chuckle with her when I order a drink for Jean, because, one, we see her almost every day, and two, she looks kind of down, so I just want to cheer her up a bit, even it lasts just about an order.
“Wow, you should give her your number already.”
Jean said once when we settled in a window-side table, a rare before-work coffee starter.
“Wait w-what? Why?”
“You look at her and laugh together as if you offered to order for me is just an excuse to spend a few more seconds to talk to her.”
“N-no! Why do you think that? I am just being polite; she looked bluey most of the time, so I started the intention of lighting her up a few times before. She said she isn’t working as what she likes but seeing someone opposite-to-Karen makes her day a lot so… it’s not a harm for a small talk, is it?... Nothing much…”
“So what? You are rambling, explaining yourself. Doesn’t it fucking mean you care? Why not try if she is still available?” Jean casually took his cup from my grasp, looking at me freezing at his words. He had a point, but not my point. “She is cute, by the way.”
Is she? I don’t know, maybe she is.
All I can recall of her traits is the coffee smell, nothing more.
Nothing as special as Jean’s.
Of course, Jean has more interesting things than just long drink descriptions.
He is ambidextrous, but more prone to being lefty.
It is not that rare or needs keen observation to notice; it’s just that everyone else either doesn’t pay too much attention to it, or gets annoyed when accidentally bumping into his left arm while we were working in a limited space and he had to use the opposite side with a scowl.
I had spotted it for the first time when we were in a group together working on the same project around last October. Before that, for nearly a whole first year of my working in Rose, I just got to know there was a two-colored-hair man working on the 4th floor, who seemed to be pissed off at everyone and everything all the time. No one had ever made an attempt to prompt a small talk or even greet him at all. Even I had tried to smile and say “good day” at him a few times when we happened to go briefly in the same direction, but the befriending plan backfired immediately: he just gave me that judging and scorning look, similar to one people use to look at an obnoxious kid screaming and banging the front seat on a 6-hour-flight.
But only after I worked with him closely did I realize he is not what everyone thought he was.
Jean is that type of high-maintenance individual, with a strict, self-regulated routine and peculiar habits, that’s why he is usually seen having a stick up his ass because the more people involved, the messier his meticulously spick and span workflow turns out to be.
And foremost, deep inside, he seemed really lonely. Like that one dude in your gaming group always chooses the different quest from the rest in a survival game, not sure why, but the path’s sure scary and unpredictable as hell.
His grumpy attitude had to have a definitive reason behind it; it would be so unfair that he was being left out or misunderstood, and I was not going to let it slide.
With that being said, I started to take the mission of Social rehabilitation for Jean personally and seriously right after that. At first, I tried to catch him at lunchtime to eat and have a talk, that’s how normal human makes friends. Before the project together, he had never sat with anyone, so I guessed this was an excuse to start a conversation. Only then that I noticed his quirk.
Soooo, I try to be on his right then on, whenever possible, to avoid making him uncomfortable.
And maybe because of left-handedness, even on his right side, the scent is stronger.
I am so satisfied.
Another discovery while observing his hands is that Jean has sweaty palms. Like, really sweaty. And maybe other body parts, too.
[Hyperhidrosis, medically speaking, is a condition where a person suffers from excessive perspiration in different body parts (mostly palms of the hands, soles of the feet, armpit, forehead, or back) together or separately, that are not related to movement or heat. This is caused by overactive sweat glands, further exacerbated by a dysregulated sympathetic nervous system. Treatment can include stress management, oral medications, Botox injection, or surgical removal of the sympathetic nerve section.]
Well, when I got the excuse to talk about this online article, he said he is working on the first treatment option; the rest of them were not necessary.
But I guess it doesn’t work, and his problem persists.
He only uses his own tools and devices, even when we always work in a group.
He has to carry a pack of hand tissue everywhere, every time, like a smoker does with cigarettes.
He hardly shakes hands with anyone; if there must be such a time, I can see the hesitancy, the quick wipe on the side of his trousers, and the alerted glance at the expression on the other person’s face when holding his hand.
He renews his body spray every half day or even changes his top some days during summer, so that the sweat smell can be masked.
He is too self-aware of his own inconvenience that he tries to stay as distant as possible from others; one, because of the smell, and two, to avoid being questioned about dripping fluid drops from his grip while working too intensely.
No one cares, but I do.
I do a lot.
They see an ignorant, indifferent and difficult man.
I see an insecure, too-shy, and too-concerned-about-others boy.
I think I want to protect Jean.
I want to show Jean that no matter the problem he has, he still deserves love and care.
Quite like how vet gamers want to get their noob bros’ back, maybe? Or like running a code that everyone sees as faulty as hell, yet refuses to give up on it, maybe? I don’t know how to put it into words.
I think I have a special feeling for Jean, which is foreign to me.
Hello, I am Marco, and I have successfully persuaded people to take care of their health better.
People here, means Jean specifically. Because it seems like he rarely goes out, if ever, during the sun is up, and he looks so pale. I can see clearly blue veins underside of his forearms and his wrists feel almost as slender as female’s. I freaked myself out the other day, thinking that I had broken his arm when I had yanked him back from the careless driver on the street. His wrist made a loud pop in my grasp and that’s no good.
Soooo, I am becoming Jean’s personal trainer. Amateurishly, of course. I also intended to be a nutritionist, but I can't even manage my own diet to be honest, so let’s put it off for now.
The plan looks good so far~
Gym, 3 times a week, Tuesday and Thursday at 7 before work, and Saturday morning at 9; if someday we oversleep, we can make some time for it in the evening. Me, pick him up and get there, helping him work out for 1 and a half hours, more or less, depending on our schedule, then bring him home. Him, always offers to buy me a snack or meal; I declined at first but he insisted, just see this as him paying for gas. If time allows, we go grab a drink in a small pub between Rose and the gym.
After a month or so, I can see some muscles coming (I am not staring at him, I swear… not all the time… I guess…). Gotta say, I am quite proud of myself, of him too. Thanks to him, I also take care of myself better. However, I can't bring myself to look at him in the eye for too long, even through the gym mirror when I spot him with heavy lifting or when I use the machine right behind him.
So, I don’t know if he ever looks at me or not.
My fingers tingle.
Have I told you that I like motor? I bought one myself and enjoy watching race matches. There was an upcoming Red Bull Grand Prix race the next week. I had knew this for a while, but at the same time, there was a movie premiere of an animation whose artist is Jean’s idol. He had mentioned it once, and yeah, no second thought, I bought the tickets already. Two of course, well… not “of course” but yeah… two for I don’t know what reasons.
The thing is, to my surprise, when I asked him to join, he was so infuriated. He took out 2 tickets for The Grand Prix.
No wayyyy~ My little heart still couldn't stop doing backflips every time thinking that he remembered. However, this was too much of a decision to make: this is for Jean, for his joy. So, I let him choose, while I couldn’t keep the grin from breaking my face in half.
“You know,” he started after a brief silence, “we can always watch the movie later, the tickets can be resold on the black market, don’t worry.
“But there will be the production team there…”
“That won't make any difference… Besides, I think I should breathe some outdoor air more… even if it’s just fuel exhaust….”
Yeah! This was a chance for Jean to go get some vitamin D, then? He looks obviously lack of some.
Soooo, that is a preface for how I am living my best life at this very moment, guiding him to our seats through the crowd.
Hand in hand. (Oh my! More backflips!)
No matter how his face is wincing with the loud noise of the packed spectators and the pre-race performance.
No matter how soaked his hand is like a sponge dipped in a fish tank, trying to pry loose from my grip, followed by his mumbling protests.
No matter how scorching hot the June weather is, when the sun feels like chopping my head in two because I have given him my cap.
Yet, my stomach is stuffed with butterflies.
I guess the match is very exciting, but for sure I can't find it important anymore.
Life is good these days.
Amidst good days, there are bad days. This is unavoidable.
I don’t know if the first workplace issue to others was huge or not, but mine is quite something.
I was kicked out of a big project last week for having conflicting opinions, have to compensate for the company’s loss with half of my base salary for the next 2 months, and I haven’t seen Jean that pissed after a long time, more at them, but a little at me. He didn’t say that, but I can sense that.
“If I were you, I would have punched them all and flipped them double birds and fucking quit.” He grunts as we are zoning out in a convenience store’s sitting area after the gym. It’s late evening already.
“Haha, I need money to live, you know, and with this economy, can’t find a new job that quickly before I get kicked out of my apartment and starve to death, I suppose so?”
I am not mad or sad, though, seeing him, so I think I should have done something else. The future of me eating instant noodles 3 meals a day is not very far.
“You can come and stay at my place; I can manage for a while… I-if you want of course…”
“Oh… thanks…”
I mumble, feeling color starting to fill my face. If I were not weighed down with the current mood, I would have burst into flame right now. That’s unexpected to hear. Does it mean he likes me? Nah, friends can do that, can't they?
The thing is, I understand this situation: they simply do what they are supposed to do (by they here means our bosses). They have done this so many times, people before them and around them have done even more than that; hence, there are no reason for a subordinate to go against them, it’s no different from a death-wish to every favor or promotion. I don’t know why I was talking back and acting that way. Well, actually, I know because what they asked is totally against my morals: telling me to add recording functions without consent? As if it’s legal! No way I am going to do that. But this equates to me being the black sheep, and my future here is not bright. And another thing is, if it’s not me doing it, there are still others replacing me, willing to follow suit.
And it’s about 4 months away until my first extermination here.
“You are not wrong, Marco. It’s just that you are too good to be anywhere. Being right is very different from being accepted…” Jean places a hand on my shoulder, and only then do I realize how slouching my posture is in the plastic chair. “Sometimes to survive means to be faulty.”
“Watch who is speaking. Is it the one who goes the extra mile to be against pleasing everyone?”
“Can't compare an outlaw with Freckled Jesus, you know?”
I can feel his lingering scent when I close my eyes and take a deep breath. Feels like an anchor.
Peaceful.
Jean is too much to handle lately.
His eyes are too deep, his smiles are too soft, and his hands are too soothing.
And it is ingrained in my memory that he only wears the perfume, the one I had carefully selected and given him as a birthday gift, on special occasions of the company, saying it is surely his taste. He likes it a lot.
Not to mention, he gave me a portrait he had drew for my birthday. I know how he works on arts, I have seen him drawing before. Meticulous strokes, calculated steps, deep long gazes, and hyper focusing state. And he observes the model very very~ closely to examine every details there are to fully recreate the essence of the object. Oh my! Jean drew me; it's me, my face he looked at to draw. It's my portrait, the side profile that he spent hours on, putting his soul in. Oh my...
Too much.
I think I might be drowned by his presence; my body temperature is equivalent to a 98 Windows computer struggling to run 10 applications at once.
My heart skips beats, my forehead sweats as if I am holding a 5-min plank, and my tongue tangles like an airphone wire in a pocket. There is this frequent blue screen of death and I can't function normally without a monologue pep talk, slash, reset instruction manual in my brain on how to resume the Usual Marco Software.
It has been only 5 weeks, in the span of 9 months truly knowing each other, not even a year yet; and my brain has already crashed like more than dozens of times in front of him, more times than when I go to the cinema in a decade. This is not how a normal human would do, signs of overlooked bugs or even unknown viruses. Gotta investigate.
There is nowhere better than your Google doctor! So, I look it up, [Infatuation] they said, [Limerence] they said, [Having a crush] they said. The more articles I read, the more terrified I am.
Oh my sweet God of Alabama! I don’t think I am ready for this.
I am just a strategic-action game programmer; I am not built for this romantic interaction in real-life!
All I know are codes, gaming, and being a nerd, smiling at people, and not holding eye contact for too awkwardly long, and pretending that I can operate as a decent human being.
I don’t know how to deal with feelings stuff.
I have never dated anyone before.
And I don’t think Jean is gay.
I am so doomed.
Hello, I am Marco, and my memory is abysmal.
People can see my problem clearly as daylight and nag me for that, including Jean. Well, I don’t think his memory is any better, but we are suck at different domains, according to Google specialists.
[There are some types of Normal Memory Lapses (often temporary)
- Absent-mindedness: Forgetting things due to lack of attention (e.g., misplacing keys).
- Transience: Forgetting details over time (use-it-or-lose-it).
- Misattribution: Remembering something but getting details wrong (who, when, where) or thinking an idea was original when it wasn't.]
- Blocking: Temporary inability to retrieve a memory, like a word on the tip of your tongue.
- Suggestibility: Memory being distorted by information learned after the event.
It’s me, the first one. I left my glasses once in the fridge (instead of milk), a few times in the armchair (almost crushed them- oh- no, I actually broke one pair with my butt), dozens of times in mind-blowing places that took me a nuisance amount of patience to find. I did lock myself out of my department twice or thrice already (had to climb the window in, thanks god it is just the second floor). I forgot to save the project once and learned the lesson the hard way (staying at work until 11, 3 days straight). Not to mention the ridiculous number of duplicate files on my computer and phone. Yeah, I can’t remember whether I downloaded them yet or not.
Jean, on the other hand, is surely the second type. I realize he can’t seem to remember people’s names very much, just their faces or special traits. He just straight out forgets things he doesn’t do often, even it comes to the easiest or the most mundane task. Like how to open a Japanese-style wrapped onigiri, how to start a car or how to do your taxes. He can’t even remember street names and directions to common places: the only two places he can get there and back by himself from his apartment (just his apartment, not anywhere else because he sure can’t find the route) are the company and the department store, slash, supermarket. I guess that explains a lot about how he looks so pale and so anti-social.
Yeah, Jean nags me quite often, I find him nagging me, and yet being a forgetful one himself cute and funny. So, I tried to bring him outside more, but the problem is I don’t drive: I have a Honda 600RR, and he kind of rips the collar of my jacket off every time I take him anywhere. Long ago, the first time he saw my motorcycle, he was gaping at, like, how I could operate such a dangerous vehicle. Yeah, yeah, dangerous for a human on foot and staying all his life indoors, and being a hairline away from getting hit by moving cars countless times while crossing the street. Yeah… yeah.
Wait, where is that sass coming from?
But anyway, I bought him a helmet myself; I go very slowly and carefully with him behind me, grabbing to every piece of fabric of my clothes he can. Yeah, I won’t admit that I enjoy that moment, even after more than dozens of times I give him a ride, even with pools of sweat on my jacket afterwards. The only problem is I can’t smell him, because… yeah, air movement and helmets and other stuff…They kind of take away the delight a little bit.
The thing is, he is still a space away from me.
It’s normal, isn’t it? Two dudes on a motorcycle, who would even sit chest-to-back like couples? Uh huh, Jean isn’t gay. And even if he was, what would make sure he even liked me?
I feel pins and needles in my fingertips when I feel hurt – I could connect the dots now.
I have that feeling quite often lately.
Hello, I am Marco, and I am really admiring those people who are strong-willed, tough-minded, with a sturdy exterior.
Yet it baffled me when I found Jean questioning and looking down on himself that much: he always thinks he is incompetent and undeserving. That may explain why he constantly yearns for more things that hopefully can fill in the lack of self-acknowledgement and seems reluctant to ask for more rewarding or promotion, even though he did give all he had. He tries his best to feel that he is good enough, not for others, but for his own standards, because he always seems empty.
It always comes to others that Jean is really cerebral, too practical, and extremely assertive. But I was right when I thought he just felt things too much that it internalized and deposited, day by day the outer shell hardened and all others can see is a rock solid, impermeable, cold Jean.
I wanted to hold him so bad when he opened up to me, even though it seemed just a tiniest hairline crack: there was a misty layer on his eyes that day when he told me about his problems. He had never cried, though. And I guess he wouldn’t want someone touching him, let alone another dude, so I just sat there feeling useless and quietly listened to what he wanted to share.
His mother had breast cancer, diagnosed a week before, at an early stage but needed immediate treatment so that it can be kept at bay. And the least unfortunate thing must happen at the time when the company was in the extermination process before this year ends, and the struggle to stay employed was more real than ever. Not to mention he was attending an online course for Industrial Designers.
Unlike my family, Jean’s mother only has him left as a family member: he is an only child, and his parents were divorced when he was 10. Because of this unfortunate health issue, Jean brought her to live with him in Trost after a few years apart since he left university. And he had to balance between his work, his study, and taking care of his mother time-wise, but the fact that cancer treatment cost was no joke: he had to find another income source to keep both of them above water.
I offered to help. I really wanted to help. But he refused, of course, independent Jean would never let anyone think he is incapable of handling anything. I am pained, not knowing what to do to lessen his burdens. So, I just do the smallest things like finding a seasonal job for him, helping him with his current work tasks, doing his assignment for the online class if I can, and giving him a ride every time he visits the hospital.
That night, when he was asked to stay at the hospital to wait 24 hours post-operation in case of needing any kind of instant family contact, I stayed with him.
And Jean actually cried.
Into my shoulder, with us sitting on a bench in the hospital premises.
I held him so tight in my full embrace that I thought he might have flinched away right after and punched me in the face, but he did not.
He let me do so.
We just sat there, cocooned in quiet sniffing.
Jean had lost some weight; I could feel his shoulder blades and spine more prominent, a little too pointy and heart-wrenching to touch. His hands soaked my sweater, it’s not like I cared, though; but I could feel the trembling grip and the dead freezing fingers, even when it was only October. His voice is getting hoarser these days, and even in snuffles that I can find the rough and stuffed sound from deep in his throat.
And he didn’t even wear his body spray anymore.
Just him, pure original scent.
I felt like a jerk to feel like that at such a point in time, but I risked it all and buried my face in his hair, deepened his head in the hollow of my shoulder.
I really wanted to squeeze all his tears out, inhale his every sadness, engulf all his pain into my chest. I wanted to give him all the warmth I have, shelter him from every cruelty of this life, and just be there for him to lean on. He deserves the best.
At that moment, I kissed him.
On his forehead.
I didn’t explain, though.
He didn’t ask.
Just silence.
Needles and pins on my fingertips, resting on his back.
Hello, I am Marco and I start to wonder what it would be better, to confess and be in excruciating pain afterwards, or to be in dull pain for eternity just to stay like this?
With Jean.
After about 2 years of knowing his existence, 16 months of knowing him personally, 7 months of truly knowing my feelings toward him, and 4 months of getting through his lowest time.
Thankfully, things outside us are getting better now. But unfortunately, that’s also the reason not to look away from things inside us.
I won’t say I have written a program… nah, it is just some simple code of a small quiz game that, if he answers all questions about our inside stories correctly, it will give the result of “Jean, will you be my boyfriend?” with little flowers popping everywhere, kind of stuff. I find it a little sappy, and Jean, for sure, will find it cringy.
Yeah, but if he can’t guess them all right, the screen just turns black, and a small sentence appears.
[Thank you for your participation in testing my demo.
Have a nice day :D]
I remember I wrote that line of code in tears, pain spread all over the palms of my hands.
Why am I such a wimp?
Why can I be tougher, more determined for him just even once? Why am I afraid of not having him now more than losing him later, eventually?
They said, “Loving someone is to do whatever it takes for them to be happy, even if their happiness doesn’t including you.”
But before stating that at least one should try, do they? Try to be included? That’s not greedy or selfish, isn’t it? This is basic human behavior, right?
I tried, but for how long then?
How long is it to be deemed as enough to give up?
I really don’t want to leave him but I guess I have no obvious reason to stay. I realized that the fact that I don’t have enough nerve to confess and determine to make a future together is already enough reason for why I don’t deserve him.
He encouraged me to accept the job offer I received from an Australian-based company; I couldn’t dare to ask him to say anything different. Jean is very straightforward; he means what he says. He thinks that my leaving is better, so it is better. I didn’t have a gut to admit that if he wanted me otherwise, I wouldn’t have hesitated to turn down the opportunity.
I am a coward.
I cried myself to sleep that night, we didn’t chat for a few days, or should I say, I didn’t know what is proper to text him for a few days.
Maybe because I can't see the future with us together, or my feelings for him aren’t big enough to keep me from wavering.
Jean deserves someone who is more stable, more resolute, more capable of loving him.
Maybe the point you know it’s time to let go is when you realize you play no role in each other’s life.
So, I choose to slowly vanish.
Life is just about a few unspoken words, some missed chances, and a lot of unwilling acceptance for every what-if.
The visa was issued with a little help here and there. Rose’s HR had made it difficult to get the Proof of finance. Maybe they were still unhappy with my behavior last year. Yet, I got the paper after a few trips up and down some floors, and a lot of mental strength to coax them. The company where I was going to was helping me with pushing the issuing process faster, which I was utterly grateful for. Usually it takes a month, in my case, somehow, I got it within barely 3 weeks.
The letter of resignation was handed in and approved at the beginning of March, which meant I had 2 weeks to tie all loose ends and book a flight ticket to Australia. The duty transferring process was carried out without trouble. We even had a small farewell party, in which Sasha cried, Connie appeased her, and Jean looked blankly at the “Goodbye, Marco” letter decoration on the wall longer than necessary. I wondered what he was thinking.
Last week, on my way back from the last visit to Rose, I sold my motorcycle to the second-hand garage a distant relative of mine owns, at quite a reasonable price. They said because I have kept it in good condition, or they would surely treasure it with the fact that it is my first belonging that I had ever bought myself; and in case I need it back when I return, it would be easier for both of us to seal the deal again.
Talking to them made me consider contacting my family, so I sent a letter to my home address, informing about my leaving. I guess it will arrive tomorrow. The method seemed a little old-fashioned and slow, but that was also my intention. I don’t keep any of my parent’s numbers anymore, and I don’t want to bother Marie, my little sis; she is busy enough taking care of our family already. So, I believe she is okay finding the news from mom and dad, and I don’t think this non-urgent communication makes any difference anyway.
A note was texted to my landlord early this morning, telling him I had finished moving out and left the keys in the mailbox. He had come to check a few days before, with no complaints whatsoever about the apartment’s state after my 2-year stay. The apartment was almost bare: I had gotten rid of everything possible so I could get my deposit back.
Things went surprisingly smoothly, which brought me an unnerving contemplation.
Why is it so easy to leave, while so challenging to stay?
Am I not supposed to be here?
I thought about it a lot on the taxi to the airport. Jean was with me then; he insisted on seeing me off, although it is a workday today. The ride there was a little awkward, but I guess this is what friendship is supposed to be.
“Take care, Marco.”
“Thank you. You too, Jean.”
We did hug farewell.
“So… See you when I see you.”
“Yeah… I should go now.”
The second hug ever.
“Ok, bye.”
“Bye.”
Probably the last.
He wore the perfume I had given. I could see there was something in his eyes, but I didn’t dare to ask.
The flight was long.
But not as long as the aching of not having reason to hold on to the familiar scent, not having excuses to keep hoping for a different outcome.
After officially leaving Rose, the frequency of our texts lessens drastically. On one hand, I was swamped in work tasks for new employees and all of the settling process in a new country; but on the other, I don’t know what to say or why I should contact him anymore.
[how are u these days?
Good, how about you?
same as usual
Is your mother doing well?
shes having her hair back now, and eating more, Im glad
Great to hear, please send my best wishes to her.
i will, she also asked about u
Oh, thank you!
‘s it good over there?
like…
everything?
Just got a new big project. A little busy but it’s only for a while
They said things will settle eventually, so don’t worry too much.
I start gym again. Do you still go to the gym?
tryin’
lack of motivation
u, remember to eat
Yes, mom.
if i was ur mom, ur dead with that eating habit
no shit
Sorry mom, I promise to take care of myself better.
for sure
Are you having lunch? What are you eating?
Are Sash and Connie there?
yep, they r replacing ur place here.
Sash recommends a new Mexican food store and its great
wait,
what time is it there?
11:30 pm
About 11 hours ahead of you.
oh shit
go to bed now u sleep deprived ass
But mom, I am texting you.
How to reply while sleeping?
Ok, night.
Night Jean.]
Some previous interactions were the same, like this, casual and almost superficial greetings with months of interval. But this one is a little different: it was our last messages, from somewhat a year ago. I believe I have re-read this conversation a hundred times already. I am still able to read the text in his voice and intonation. I still can recall seeing the little blue ellipsis bouncing on his side of the chat for a few seconds. I still remember I stayed up past midnight that day just looking at the screen, waiting for his final text before bed.
Nothing came.
I cried to sleep at 1. Holding on to the portrait he gifted.
From time to time nowadays, I only have a gut to check his social media, though he doesn’t post much. But I won't say I cried the other day when I saw an Instagram post of two photos. One was a photo of two hands holding each other. In the other, there were some blue-shaded glass shards shattered on the ground in a pool of liquid with no caption. I recognized what those were from immediately.
I left a heart at the post.
My hands felt like being pierced with nails.
The sensation has exacerbated and haunted me since the day I let him go.
3 years already.
Hello, my name is Marco Bodt, and I used to think that I was a bad liar, but now, it seems like I even deserve an Oscar for the best actor of the year.
Jean is getting married today, and I am putting on the best face possible for his happiness.
I almost crumpled the wedding invitation unconsciously after Connie gave it to me the other day. His eyes were a little puzzled, dashing between me and Sasha, his now wife. I smiled, but I bet it looked so wrinkled, nodded, and proceeded with the casual conversation among old friends. We hadn’t talked that carefree ever since the last time they had called to invite me to their wedding a long time ago, but I couldn’t attend because of work. A lot changed. We changed.
Connie and Sasha got married in the Spring of last year; they are expecting their firstborn now. That’s wonderful for them. They are still working at Rose, so is Jean, but three of them don’t get around as frequently as before anymore. He is getting married to a co-worker who started working 2 years ago. The two seem really compatible.
After the meet up, I crashed down on the pavement back to my apartment, sobbing and mumbling to myself as if I was wasted. My palms felt like being needling all over the place, scorching and twitching painfully. But I fisted one and punched a few times into my chest.
It hurt, but the void hurt more.
It was as if having a black hole at the place my heart should have been.
But I have no right to feel hurt or regret now.
Well, what do I expect? Seeing the one you love waiting for you to come back after 4 years with the hope that nothing would change a bit?
You should not be that selfish, Marco. Jean has a life of his own; you shouldn’t be the one who wastes his precious years on waiting for wishful thinking.
But I am all the same, to him, for him, and because of him.
Then I guess it’s your loss-… no, lesson-… no… your experience to keep, then.
Life goes on.
End of Marco's POV