If You’re Sure, My Love
by Miran Tsay
She attends his funerals like clockwork. It's an honour.
She's known him under a million ceilings, with a dozen different catch-phrases, when he liked scary movies and when he didn't, all the versions of him since the summer before sophomore year.
She attends his funerals like clockwork.
They happen without warning, without preamble, sometimes as often as every other day and other times months will pass by without an invitation.
The ivory envelopes are usually tucked under her doorframe or next to the stacks of their old polaroids. She picks it up. They're carbon copies of each other. The typical 8 x 3 size. His handwriting, makeshift cursive with long ls and ds and ps and ts. The black pen that's sometimes smudged. Sealed no less than perfectly.
She unfolds the paper three times.
This one reads:
your presence is requested by
[censored first name, censored last name]
to honour his passing
on the twenty-eighth of January, 8:46 in the evening
at the 50/50
reception will follow
She notes down the date in her mind and folds up the letter. Gently, as if it will crumble, and slips it in between the red and gold journal he got her a few moons ago. It will disappear, as the invitations always do.
Last time she got him a purple rose. His favourite colour is purple. This time, she picks up a red carnation. The nice Korean lady at the flower shop said it signifies deep love and affection. That's accurate enough. Not quite enough, because feelings can't always be attributed to words, but closer than if left undescribed.
He's not one for flowers. Says it could be argued they serve no purpose. They only take up space and water and oxygen to be beautiful to die, to wilt in on themselves and have their limbs severed or cauterized.
She doesn't care. She always picks up a flower for his funerals. Are they more for her than him? For the brief beauty she gets to hold as she walks to the 50/50? Yes. Unquestionably. The flowers remind her of the times she'd get down on one knee, confess again to him, and when he'd laugh and accept it. "I have feelings for you," she'd say. "Please go out with me." And he'd say, "if you're sure, my love," or, "as long as my girlfriend doesn't find out," (spoiler: she was his girlfriend) or, just: "alright."
And then they'd go on quiet adventures on the subway or make tea just to share cups or do nothing. Nothing is everything when you spend it with the right person.
She's rarely in uniform for the funeral. The first and second time, she wore her black winter coat, but that was more because the cold was biting her spine and less because black was the traditional attire. Now, she wears baggy jeans and doc martins since the winter salt is washed away. It's easy to pretend spring is coming when the clouds recess, even for a moment.
Her eulogy for him rarely changes. It's celebratory. Thankful. Happy. It's built on a skeleton of half-admiration and half-guilt. As she walks to the 50/50 with the red carnation clutched in her left hand, she runs over the familiar script. There's nothing to amend.
She passes by the local supermarket and bus stations, only a hop skip and jump away from the 50/50. It's called the 50/50 because it's halfway in between his neighbourhood and hers. Her stomach hurts. She internally says her small hello to the butterflies, to the nerves, to the reminder that she still has so many feelings for him. She shakes. It's as if her jitters are materializing as visible tremors. Sometimes she trips on the way to his funeral, nicks her finger on the thorns of a flower, forgets how to breathe.
Nine out of ten times, she'll run into him before hitting the 50/50. She's slow. She checks her watch. 8:41.
"Hello," she says, starting her eulogy. His arms wrap around her. She leans onto his chest, feels the key fit to the lock now that they are in the same place of existence, and her heartstrings sigh. She wants to climb into his chest and sit in the alcove of his soul.
"You're slow," he says over her shoulder. She pulls back, grins, takes his hand.
"I got this for you." The red carnation is only mildly squished from her walk. He takes it.
"Thank you," he says. He looks like walking poetry.
He fills her in about the chickpea pasta he had for dinner, about his dog's shenanigans of the day, about the discovery he made about rom-com anime openings.
They end up passing by the 50/50. She notices and checks her watch. 8:46. Perfect.
"I adore you," she says, ending the eulogy. It's always the same.
"Hm?" He's been explaining a chord progression.
"I adore you," she repeats.
"And I you?" As always, he returns the sentiment, even if it's out of the blue.
She beams.
She attends his funerals like clockwork.
They're quick, and unnoticeable to him, and only exist in between the pages of her reality.
Once, when he asked her if she saw a future with them in it, she said, "Yes, although we do not know if future you will like future me."
And he had responded, much later. A few weeks later, in fact. "Perhaps. But I believe I'll adore you for a long time, no matter who you become."
"I see," she had said, and still believed. "And I you."
Loving him is an act of faith. She believes he'll always be the person she'll love, no matter how they change and grow. They will change, both of them, and there is no question about it. They'll grow into themselves. Her, into her fantasy worlds and funny dragon theories, and him into piano sextets and busker compositions. She cannot wait.
She attends his funerals like clockwork.
To love long-term is to become an accomplice. A witness to murder. To watch your lover die a thousand times and rise from the ashes. To watch them bypass people they could have been and grow into themself.
She attends his funerals like clockwork.
All of them, for all the versions of him that have ever existed. All of the millions for people he has been, people he's moved on from, people he's given up on, people he never knew.
The versions of him that sang louder, that hated tea, that were too tired to continue. The one that prefers hot sauce over vinegar, the one that knew nineteen openings in chess, and the one that used red pen. She loves and cherishes all of them, and brings them all flowers, but this one, the one holding her hand, the one she is here with, present with, that one is her favourite.
And so,
She attends his funerals like clockwork.