In the summer of that December, I stood beside you, bare feet, the cold water washed over our ankles as we watched the creeks slither. I was seventeen, and you were a year younger. Perhaps tired of walking, you plunked yourself down on the summer grass, wordlessly gazing up at the sky.
As I sat down beside you, I had an odd feeling, as if thousands of threads were wrapping your body to my heart. The two of us sat there, side by side, at the nameless riverbank.
“There is a green atmosphere surrounding the planet,” you began, drawing words from the deep silence.
“It is not that big of a planet, yet it’s not small enough to be absorbed by a single glance.” This was the second time you’d talked to me about the planet. And now the planet has a huge atmosphere surrounding it.
As you spoke, the planet revealed rings of rivers and three stone bridges. Every morning, the water floods out from underneath the bridge. It fills the hollow ground, where the elks drink to sate themselves until not a drop is left.
The water is the flesh of the elk. Every winter, the elks die from the water freezing up and the gate keeper would always pile the dead elks in a tunnel, and burn it until the flesh dissolved deep down, then becoming water once again.
“The real me lives there, in that green atmosphere,” You said.
“So the you sitting here next to me isn’t the real you?” I had to ask.
“That’s right, the me here isn’t the real me. It’s only a stand-in, like a shadow.”
Like a shadow? I wondered. But I kept that question to myself.
“Well, what do you do there?”
“I work in a library on the planet. Stuck behind a counter, I assist you in reading dreams.”
“Assist me?” The idea seemed so detached from reality. “You mean I belong to that planet too?”
“That’s right. And there is one thing I want you to remember—on that planet, I won’t remember anything about you.”
“Why?”
“You know why,” she says. And I do know why.
It is because the person next to me is merely a stand-in; the real her belongs to a planet with a library of dreams. I longed to be on that planet desperately.
The first time I met you was in the tedious award ceremony for a high school writing contest. You sat next to me, relishing in your achievement. You placed second for the competition, while I placed third. Out of boredom, I asked you what you wrote for the competition. You said you wrote about a town that is silent in the day, but is crowded by a million cats at night.
“I guess the judges must be cat lovers,” I couldn’t help but smile. You smiled in return.
Just before the affair ended, I tore out a scrap piece of paper to jot down my name and address. I passed it to you, whispering: “I was hoping maybe you could write me a letter some time.”
Normally I tend not to be so bold. I’ve always been shy by nature, but the thought of saying goodbye and not seeing each other again felt like a great mistake, totally unfair.
Eyes betraying the surprise you felt, you took the piece of paper, folded it twice and stowed it in the lower pockets of your blazer.
“I’d like to read more about what you write,” I explained, like an awkward excuse you’d offer after opening the wrong door.
“I’d like to read your letters too,” and you nodded, the action giving me a boost of encouragement.
Your letter arrived a week later, penned in cobalt blue ink with neat handwriting. It amazed me. I must have read about twenty times. I replied, writing with the pen I snagged at the competition. This was how our friendship began. Perhaps it was more than that, but I didn’t know. But during this period, our hearts were tied as one, and we went on to create a special and secret world of our own – a planet with a green atmosphere.
You wrote extensively about your dreams. You told me that you kept a notebook beside your bed to spill your dreams into after each night. Soon those dreams spilled over to me. Tied together by these stories, we spent time with each other often. We used to take the bus to the cafe near your house and then walk down the creek together.
You asked me to meet you around three in the afternoon on Sunday. I walked to the bench beside the playground and you weren’t there. I waited for longer than I should’ve, listening to the swing creak, feeling the breeze over my face. It was nearly four by the time you arrived, stifling your sobs.
I had no idea what had happened. In vain, I tried to comfort you, but you couldn’t say anything at all. We settled on walking down the bay, when you finally spoke.
“I am getting forgotten.” You whispered, and the words seem to thin out your memory as you spoke as if the air itself is erasing them
We walked silently for the rest, and that was the last time I saw you before your disappearance. When we parted our ways at the edge of the bay, you didn’t say goodbye. You just gave a small faded smile, turned around and walked into the dusk. By the time I reached the corner, the space you stood was entirely vacant, like a book with a page cleanly torn out. After returning home, I wrote to you several times, but just like a stone tossed into the pond, you gave no response. I was filled with regret that I hadn’t replied to you right then, the million times I replayed that scene, how I wanted to say even a word, even just a “why?” But I knew she was determined. The real you retreated to that library, where everything is eternal. I think about the elks very often now—how you became like a young elk, stepping into the river and letting yourself dissolve within it. I am furious, yet I knew you were right. I would do the same if I were only visible to you.
Writer – Max Mao
Editor – Asees Waraich
Artist – Linh Nguyen Dao Gia
–June 2026–
Leave a Reply