Lyrics taken from Henry Moodie’s Drunk Text.
Our first words were exchanged at a philosophy lecture, where he sat in the very front and spoke not infrequently about the inherent goodness of human nature. I ambushed him on his way out to argue with his views. He laughed and asked me if I wanted to discuss that over coffee.
If this were a happier story, that’s what I’d be telling at the wedding.
(5th of November/When I walked you home)
The story began on Rosewood Avenue. It was sometime around midnight, so I had a little wine in my system. He didn’t; he was a health addict.
“So you want to be a doctor?” I asked him. I think I was smiling as I did.
He nodded. I remember the soft streetlight glowing in his hair.
“Why?”
“I want to save people.” He said simply, like it was easy.
I think that’s when I knew. A quarter of the way to tipsy, hands freezing cold in my pockets, watching his silhouette get softer around the edges in the hazy lamplight, and all I could think about was the unrelenting way he wanted to do good in this world.
It’s not often one meets the antithesis of themselves, so who could fault me for getting a little too fond?
“Hey.” I said. Like I was actually going to tell him.
(That’s when I nearly said it)
“Yeah?”
(But then said ‘forget it’ and froze)
“Nothing.” I said, because I wasn’t stupid. “Nevermind.”
No response.
(Do you remember?/You probably don’t)
(‘Cause the sparks in the sky/Took a hold of your eyes while we spoke)
When I looked over, he was smiling faintly up at the stars. He’s not paying attention, I thought. Why should he? He wanted to save people. I wanted to want to save people. It’s easy to mistake jealousy for admiration, I thought. And it’s easy to mistake admiration for love.
My reasoning was faulty. I know now.
(Yesterday, drank way too much/And stayed up too late)
I was drinking with Tess. You have a drinking problem, is what she said. I pointed out that she was matching me bottle for bottle. She raised an eyebrow, I’m not typing and deleting and typing and deleting on my phone while I indulge my unhealthy habits, honey.
I flicked her the middle finger and pulled out my phone again.
(Started to write what I wanna say)
“Now send it.” Tess said, smirking a little like she knew I couldn’t. “You’ll regret it if you don’t.”
(Deleted the message, but I still remember it said—)
“I’m fooling myself.” I said. There was a bottle by my hand and I downed all of its contents in one go. “Love isn’t real. It’s all hormones and societal constructs created to prolong the survival of the human species, and we’re all just victims getting the wool pulled over our eyes.”
Tess snorted. “You’re made out of hormones and societal constructs, honey.”
(April the 7th/And nothing has changed)
“You drink?” His eyes were on the bottle in my hand.
We were at someone’s house party, which was a nicer way of saying loud music and cheap pizza. I was two drinks in, looking a little worse for wear, and my cynicism had started bleeding into conversations. He looked the same as always.
“Yeah.” I said. “Surprised?”
“Kind of.” He said. “Alcohol dulls the senses, and you don’t seem like someone who’d enjoy that.”
“I don’t. My friend thinks it’s a problem.”
(It’s hard to get by)
“It’s a problem that’s easy to fix.” He said, and something like a muscle that’s been straining for too long loosened in my chest. “If it is one.”
“I’d say it’s more like a coping mechanism.”
He blinked like he was surprised. “What are you coping with?”
(When you’re still on my mind)
“Everything.” I said, like a cliche. “There’s no meaning to life, yet I can’t scrounge enough bravery out of me to end it. It’s this state of freedom of choice yet inability to make one that drives people crazy. It’s driving me crazy.”
(every day)
“There is a meaning to life.” His smile was crooked. There was only water in his cup (health addict) but there was something distinctly bold in his demeanor that reminded me of myself just before I black out. “You find it by spending time with the people you love.”
(Sometimes I question/If you feel the same?)
“Oh yeah?” I swirled the beer before taking a swig. “What are you doing here then?”
(Do we make stupid jokes?)
“What do you think?”
(Trying to hide that we’re both too afraid)
“I think there’s something in your water.” I said. “Love doesn’t exist, so your reasoning is rendered incomplete from the get-go.”
“I’m pretty sure it does.”
(to say—)
I’m going to have to delete his contact off my phone, I thought.
Tess wouldn’t approve of that. She laid her feelings out like cards on the table. Clean. Efficient. A complete mess, but you could never tell.
She wouldn’t look at my involvement with any sympathy at all. In fact, I can hear her comments in my head already, cigarette smoke curling around her mascaraed lashes as she croons oh boy, what a sad, sad, story, laying the pity on thick even though we both know what she’s really saying is honey, I told you so.
I hate it when she’s right. But then again, it’s not like she’s ever been wrong, so I guess I should be used to it by now.
(Oh, and here we go again)
I didn’t delete his contact off my phone.
(Destroy myself to keep a friend)
I did, however, stop going to those philosophy lectures, and to those coffee shops. I told myself it’s to keep me from gaining a new addiction, which wasn’t entirely a lie. The drug just wasn’t coffee.
(Hiding away ’cause I was afraid you’d say no)
The next time I saw him again was back on Rosewood Avenue. Tess would say it’s fitting that the story closes where it began. I say she’s delusional. The story didn’t begin there. That would place too strong of an emphasis on me in the narrative. The story began when he began.
(I wonder if I cross your mind/Half as much as you do mine)
I was thinking about him, walking along that street. It’s hard not to think about him in the place where I first realised I was in love with him. It’s a street I walk often, perhaps unfortunately.
(If I tell you the truth)
A section was blocked off. Orange and black tape. Policemen in dark uniforms were wielding bright batons to direct what little traffic there was anyway. I smelled the car crash before I saw it, burning fumes and something heavy and metallic.
Drunk driver, people were saying. And some unfortunate guy that just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.
(What will I lose?)
I cleared the crowd and saw him being lifted into an ambulance and I stopped thinking at all.
(I don’t know)
The next thing I know, I’m in the hospital. There’s a nurse in front of me. I asked a question.
“You’re looking for…?” She read his name off a little notepad, and my hands went cold. She had that look in her eyes, the look that professors took on when you received a bad score, half pity, half condescension. “I’m so sorry.”
I said something that made her flinch. I don’t remember what it was. My brain doesn’t like to remember the end as clearly as the beginning.
(I wish I’d sent you that drunk text that midnight)
If this were a happier story, I’d be telling it at our wedding.
(I was just scared it would ruin our friendship)
But it’s not a happier story, so I’m telling it at his funeral instead.
(But I really meant it)
I think maybe love does exist, after all. I haven’t touched a bottle since he died. What other drug is there that’s stronger than alcohol?
(I wonder how you would reply?)
Writer – Amy Zuo
Editor – Sophia Oblefias
Artist – Sophia Pu
–April 2025–
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