Last Goodbyes
[The view is hazy before clearing: a vague memory of a summer afternoon. An outside corridor stands before us, bright with sun. It’s not really called an ‘outside corridor’, but one must make do when there’s no real word for it— exterior walkway, gallery, concourse— none of those quite captures the way it stands, soft, open, hopeful. That’s the problem with words: things are often indescribable.]
[A breeze. Leaves rustle and grass sways, gently.]
[The tranquillity of it all strums a strange note of trepidation: not exactly the calm before the storm, but something softer. The breath one takes before speaking. A lifted pen, poised to write. The sound of the key turning in the lock— the last step, on the way home.]
[Blackout.]
[It comes right before enough time has passed for us to be satisfied with what we’ve seen. The sense of loss is inexplicable, but deeply personal. It’s an ache deep in one’s chest that threatens to spill over into the throat.]
[A line of text, across the dark screen:]
Any regrets?
[We cut to a montage of different people: an unpolished film, but the camera was held with a steady hand and there’s so much love it feels almost palpable. Flashes of faces pass by, like the scenery outside the train window on a long trip. A pause. A look of surprise. An unsure smile. A laugh. Each scene is captured in their moment of enactment, completely still, yet also speeding along, hurtling down the tracks, too fast to hold.]
[We pause on one of these interviews. The stillness settles, momentarily, the rising ache in the back of our throats.]
#1: Regrets? Like, for me, personally?
[Yes. reads the text at the bottom of the screen, interview caption-style. We never hear the voice of the interviewer: we only know them through their words.]
[A different face. A different person. The transition from one interview to another is seamless but distinct. This person wears the expression of someone who’s been presented with a puzzle they didn’t expect to have to solve.]
#2: …any regrets…uh, coming to school this morning?
[Seriously? reads the caption. A laugh is heard somewhere, off-screen.]
#2: Well, what did you expect me to say? It’s a vague question.
[Different face, different person.]
#3: Oh my gosh, regrets? I have so many. You want a list? [They take a deep breath, deep enough for us to wonder how many years they’ve been waiting for this question.] Okay, first of all, not dropping maths. That’s got to be top. But, close second, cutting my hair, wait, dying my hair— and, also, I regret lying on my application, like, I never should’ve done that—
[Different person.]
#4: [Pause.] Wow, getting real deep and personal, aren’t we? I don’t even know if I have any.
[No regrets? At all? reads the captions.]
#4: Okay, I’m sure I have some. It’s just, well, it’s not something I think about that often, you know?
[Different person.]
#5: I think about it, all the time, in the back of my mind. Like, what I could’ve done, or who I could’ve been, if I just worked a little bit harder, or if I was just a little luckier, or, I don’t know, if an alien spaceship had came down from space and blasted me with a success-inducing laser gun.
[Success-inducing laser gun. Nice. reads the captions.]
#5: Hey, I’m being for real here, alright? It haunts me, my lost potential. Kind of. But then again, we’ve all got our own ghosts, right? I’d rather mine be that, than something horribly malevolent like… ‘you tried your very hardest and you did your very best but it was still, all for nothing’.
[A hesitant silence. It really does haunt them, this ‘lost potential’.]
[Different person.]
#3: —and they were not understanding about it, whatsoever, so, lesson learnt, I’ll make sure to not lie on my application in the future, and in fact, I regret not learning how to write a good cover letter, oh wait, people pleasing, that’s a big one—
[Different person. Their smile wry, their tone secretive— telling us an inside joke that isn’t as funny as it used to be.]
#6: I’ll tell you what it is. Dating. At such a young age— or, actually, no. Dating in general. It really ruins your life in a way nothing else could.
[They laugh. There’s hurt there, but it’s old hurt. The kind that says, who hasn’t gotten their heart broken, once or twice or a million times?]
[Different person.]
#7: The view. I should’ve looked at it more. [They smile, embarrassed at finding romantic wonder in a world so cynical.] I know, it is such a cliche, but that’s who I am, you know? It’s the simple things that get me. Like, who else is going to say: I’ll miss the way the sky rests gently on the sea, and the way the hills cradle them both? It’s dumb. It doesn’t make any sense. But look at it some time; I promise you, you’ll know what I mean.
[Different person.]
#8: I bet someone’s going to say something stupid like “I’m going to miss the way the sky looks, resting on the sea”— wait, it’s happened already? I told you. I bet it was [bleep].
[It was, yes. reads the captions.]
#8: No way, for real? What a hopeless cliche. [They smile, fondly.]
[Different person.]
#3: —My hairstyle on the first day of school! God, someone go back and tell me that wasn’t the look I thought it was, genuinely. Yeah, I do seem to have a lot of regrets surrounding hair, right? I regret not finding a better hairstylist, I guess, and also—
[Different person.]
#9: I, uh, I think I should’ve said something when I had the chance to. [Vulnerability flickers in their eyes.] Do you think it’s too late? Now?
[It’s never too late. reads the captions, and they are right. The best time to plant a tree was ten years ago. The second best time is now.]
#9: Okay. Here goes nothing. Hey.
[They point to the camera. Us.]
#9: You there— you know who you are. I don’t know if you ever gave me a clear answer or not— it’s always hard to tell with you— because I never asked. And, to be honest, it makes me feel a little bit better that I never really went out and said it. That I left a little sliver of space between what was, and what could’ve been. Just enough for hope. That’s why I’m scared, still. I haven’t had any closure, so I think— I think I’m always going to be a little bit in love with you.
[Different person.]
#6: Tell you what, forget dating— love. That’s the big one. It wrecks your whole being, man, and there’s nothing you can do about that kind of regret.
[Well, regret is just the love you left unspent. reads the captions.]
#6: Yeah, I suppose.
[Blackout.]
[It lasts long enough that we experience a brief, panicked moment of having something ripped from our fingertips: like running to a favourite restaurant only to find someone turning the ‘closed’ sign on the door. The loss is inexplicable, deeply personal, an ache expanding and expanding in the back of one’s throat.]
[Then, relievingly: an image, hazy before clearing, blurs into view: it’s the beach. And beyond it: the sky, resting gently above the sea. The pressure eases. The sound of waves can be heard, softly, in the background.]
[My voice— or is it our voice?—off-screen:]
#?: Any regrets?
[Wait. reads the captions. There’s a desperation we haven’t yet seen in their words, now rearing its head. It’s impressive how much emotion one can convey without a voice. I need more time. The script has almost one and a half thousand words and I still haven’t found the right ones for what I want to say yet. Everything is so terribly indescribable.]
#?(softly): That’s not what I asked.
[Everyone has a memory that rises in the back of their mind just before they’re about to fall asleep. reads the captions. A memory that never fails to suck all the air out of their lungs in the middle of the night, a memory that hurts and hurts and never stops hurting. That’s love, don’t you see? Regret— regret is just leftover love with nowhere else to go. Wait. The words are almost right. I just need more time.]
#?: My dad used to tell me— when I was still a child throwing tantrums— that even the most wonderful things have to come to an end. Your time is up, my friend. I’m sorry. The ending is never as polished as the beginning, but it’s just as beautiful, don’t you think?
[Wait. reads the captions. Wait, just—]
#?: It’s alright. Come, say your last goodbyes.
[But I still have so much love left to giv
Writer – Amy Zuo
Editor – Alvia Farooqui
Artist – Maryam Nawaz
–August 2026–
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