Philip

To the songs that breaks us. It is almost bedtime. I am listening to one of my Vietnamese bolero songs, and suddenly, I have this urge to sing. I think of another song—one I’ve never been able to finish, that always catches in my throat, that always makes my voice waver. I try again this time. The song is called Mỗi Mùa Xuân Về Là Thêm Một Lần Dối Mẹ. It tells the story of a son who leaves his home country, lies to his mother every spring, telling her he will come back next year. He never does. And each passing year, he knows she is growing older, the house is falling apart, wonders if the cherry blossom tree will bloom again. The way the words are written, how they are arranged—they hit something deep. The lyrics sit heavy on my chest, pressing, pressing, until the tears come, when my voice cracks and I have to stop. I think of another song—Lời Cha Dạy. This one is about a father. About a mother who has passed. A father left behind, raising his son, teaching him how to be a good person, to get a respectable job, to live with integrity. The song says that when the father is gone, the son will remember everything he was taught. Will carry his lessons forward. Will live by them. I can’t get through this one either. Something about the music video, the story, the weight of it all—it’s too much. My voice falters, my throat tightens, and I know, once again, that I won’t make it to the end. And then I realize. Both of these songs—they are about family. With the divorce, with everything that happened years ago, I haven’t spoken to my father. And now my mother and I live together. So these songs—they cut deeper. They remind me of what was, of what isn’t, of what could have been. I wonder how he is. I wonder if he is happy. And I wonder—behind my mother’s laughter, behind her smiles—how much she is holding back, how much she is carrying alone. I think I should give her a hug.

To Time who we never get enough of. A while back, whenever I planned things with my friends, because of the flexibility I had with work, with life, with time, I always found myself with more to spare. And the people I called, the ones I asked to hang out, I always thought they were busier than me. Their schedules packed. Their days full. So, I let them decide. I told them to give me their availability, and I would plan around them. I always put my time in second place. And it worked—because I could always adjust, shift things around, bend my schedule to fit theirs. But something has changed. Lately, I’ve noticed a shift—not just in my schedule, not just in my responsibilities, but in how I perceive my own time. Yes, I’m busier now, with full-time work, with part-time study, with student clinic on top of it all. But that’s not the point. The point is, I see my own self-worth now. I see that my time is just as valuable as theirs. Just because I manage my time well, just because I make space, doesn’t mean that their time matters more than mine. We all have 24 hours in a day. And so now, when I want to catch up with friends, I remind myself— they’re busy, yes, but so am I. And we need to meet somewhere in the middle. This small shift, this small realization, has changed the way I see myself. I matter. My time matters. These days, I like to acknowledge that we’re both busy, that we both have full lives, and I hope our schedules align in a way that suits us both. Then I give them my availability—usually for the entire month—so we can plan something. And I find that this works. Really well.

To the legacy we leave behind. I’m at work. Today is Paul’s first official day on the building station, a station I’ve been training him on for the last two days. We’re throwing him into the deep end. We’re doing 80 tires—the maximum we can possibly do in a day. It’s been a very long time since anyone’s come out of training and done 80 tires on their first day. The people I’ve trained before? They haven’t done this yet. And honestly? I doubt my own ability to do it if I had just come out of training. But Paul? Paul is something else. He did it—easily. And in good time, too. Towards the end of the day, I looked over at Paul while I was doing my own work, and I noticed something. It was like… watching a complete replica of myself. Everything I’d taught him—all the pro tips, all the techniques, all the little tricks to become more efficient—he did them. Perfectly. It was surreal. Like looking into a mirror. And I thought to myself, What a machine this man is. And, in a way, What a machine I am. But then it hit me—this man, in the very near future, is going to surpass me. He’s going to be more efficient, faster, sharper. He’s going to be better than I am now. And that made me feel I don’t know— Sad. It took me a while to figure out why I felt this way. But I got there. I felt sad because it made me feel like I no longer mattered. Like his light was shining so brightly that my own light was starting to dim. Like, soon, no one would even see me. Of course, I know that’s not true. I know I’m still valuable. People still come to me for help, for advice. But still— That feeling lingered. Paul is an exceptional worker. People go to him now, too, asking for tips, looking for guidance. But I guess people still see me as the senior, the mentor, so my advice carries a bit more weight. For now. And yeah, I know I wrote yesterday about how proud I was—about how I fulfilled my duty as a mentor—and I meant it. I really did. But today? Seeing how far Paul has come, how much he’s grown? It hit a different nerve. A nerve I didn’t even know I had. And, in a way, I think that’s important. It reminded me that, at the end of the day, I’m still human. I realized I’d been comparing Paul and me on a one-dimensional scale. Measuring us based on work performance—speed, accuracy, efficiency. But people? We’re more complex than that. We exist in layers. And Paul and I? We bring different flavors to the factory. I’m cheeky. A boat rocker. I stir up trouble—just enough to make things interesting. I’m the guy who takes annual leave just to play a newly released game. The prankster. The mischief-maker. Paul? He’s grounded. Serious. All about the work. Getting it done. Doing it right. We’re different. But that doesn’t mean one of our lights shines brighter than the other—it just means they shine differently. And then, I thought about it on a deeper level—philosophically. I’m a builder. I built the stage Paul now stands on. He’s in the spotlight, performing, everyone’s eyes on him. But me? I’m behind the scenes. I built the damn stage. And I hope—I hope—that when people watch him shine, they’ll remember the stage he’s standing on. And maybe, just maybe, they’ll remember the builder who made it possible. I used to think I was okay being behind the scenes. But lately? Lately, I’ve felt this need—this urge—to be seen. To be recognized. And I think that’s where this feeling comes from—the sadness. The insecurity. The fear that when Paul’s in the spotlight, people will forget about me. Forget the builder. Forget the mentor. And that scares me. I guess what I’m really saying is— When I leave this company, I want to be remembered. Not just as a good worker. But as someone who brought flavor, personality, life—to this place. And I think— No, I hope— That’s the legacy I’ll leave behind.

To the students that surpass us as teachers. I’ve been training Paul for a while now at work, and today, I realized something profound. He’s exceeded me in a few of the stations. There are ten stations in total in the factory. I’m a jack-of-all-trades in all of them, mastering one—just one—that I’ve been doing for the past seven years. Since Paul started, less than three months ago, I’ve been training him on almost all the stations, and now, more than half of them? He’s surpassed me. His dedication, his hard work, his resilience—it’s all paid off. And that struck me today. He’s better than me. But the feeling that came over me wasn’t jealousy. It wasn’t envy. It was happiness. Pride. And that made me realize—I’ve done my job. You see these moments in movies, right? When the student surpasses the teacher. Maybe they go head-to-head in some epic battle, and the teacher falls—slow motion, music swelling—and yet, there’s always that faint smile on the teacher’s face And in some way, that’s me. But I’m not falling. I’m standing. Smiling. Because I’ve helped unlock Paul’s potential. I’ve lifted him up, even if that means he’s now standing higher than I am. And I feel at peace with that. I’m proud of him—proud of myself, too. That my weird, crazy teaching techniques worked, that he learned so quickly, that he trusted me enough to guide him. That matters. So now, he’s ahead of me, walking forward, on his own path. And I’m behind him, still smiling, watching him take those steps, knowing I helped carve out that road for him. I clap the dust off my hands, pat myself on the back for a job well done, and sit down—maybe in a rocking chair, maybe just in my head—and I think to myself: My friend, my job here is done.

To the stars that shine brightly at night. I have this image in my mind now—whenever I meet someone new, or even when I think about someone from my past. I picture myself, standing alone, looking up at the night sky, a sky full of stars. Each star? It’s a person. A moment. A memory. These stars—they represent the people I’ve met before, the relationships I’m holding onto now, and even those I haven’t met yet—the ones still waiting, out there, ready to fill the empty spaces. Some stars shine brightly, lighting up the sky, impossible to ignore. Others? They’re faint, distant, the remnants of my past. Stars that I still think about from time to time, but not as much as I used to. And then there are the ones that have already died out, their light still visible in my night sky, still echoing the moments, the lessons, the love, the heartbreak. They’re gone—but the light remains. And the most beautiful part? The constellations. Some of these stars—my friends, my family—they connect, forming patterns, lines, stories in the sky. They become my guiding lights, the ones I follow when I lose my way. When life feels heavy, when the fog rolls in and I can’t see what’s in front of me, I just look up, search for the constellations, and there they are—leading me forward. They’ll guide me out of the woods, out of the fog, to a clearing, an open field, where I can see the sky again— where clarity shines, as bright as the stars above.

To boats worth rocking. I’ve been thinking a lot about my dating profile lately. Paul and Jordan have been helping me with it too—half-joking, half-serious—but I think there’s some truth in what they’ve suggested, and maybe, just maybe, I’ll actually use it. We started with my roots. My parents are from the southern part of Vietnam, far from the city, near the border. My dad’s from Cà Mau, my mum’s from Bạc Liêu—and that, apparently, makes me a country boy. It’s funny, because I’ve never really thought about it that way, but it fits. I’m naturally shy, not the first one to speak in a room, so we landed on shy country boy as my first trait. Cute, right? But then we dove deeper—or maybe got a little silly. Because, despite being shy, I love to stir things up. I like to rock the boat, gently at first, just to see who notices. Picture it—me, sitting in a boat with a group of people, everyone trying hard to keep their balance, nervous about tipping over. And there I am, just rocking it, ever so slightly, watching the panic set in. Then, when no one’s expecting it, I rock it harder—and everyone’s screaming, holding on for dear life—and I’m just there, laughing. So now? Now I’m the boat rocker. I proudly wear that title like a badge of honor. It gets worse—or better, depending on how you look at it. At work, I’ve made it a habit of walking up to people with a dead-serious face and saying I’ve got bad news. I do it so often that now, whenever someone sees me approaching, they brace for impact, expecting disaster. But here’s the thing: I don’t always bring bad news. Sometimes it’s good news. Sometimes it’s solutions. But, more often than not, I just want to see their reaction. Stirring the pot, rocking the boat—it’s who I am. So now, my dating profile reads something like this: Shy country boy. Boat rocker. Bearer of bad news (but sometimes good). It’s silly. It’s mischievous. A little chaotic. But it feels like me. It’s the kind of profile that makes someone stop, read it again, and maybe—just maybe—want to rock the boat with me, tip it over even.

To those who search the world all over, only to return home to find it. Recently, there’s been this guy at work that I’ve been crushing on—Paul. He’s 43, Vietnamese, about chin-height on me, and has one of those smiles that actually reaches his eyes. He’s an exceptionally good worker, and I often find myself feeling safe around him, like everything’s going to be alright. One time, when we were working together, our hands touched, just for a second, and I felt this tingle running through my body. I couldn’t figure out what the feeling was—until it hit me. I have a crush on him. Lately, I’ve also been feeling more confident in myself. You know that feeling when you’re finally comfortable in your own skin? Up until now, only one person at work knew I was gay. But today, I wanted to tell someone else—Jordan. Jordan’s an interesting guy—friendly, warm, and we’ve always had a good connection. I wanted to talk to someone, anyone, about my feelings toward Paul, and Jordan felt like the right person. So, I asked if he could work with me for a bit. With my heart racing, I told him there was something I needed to say. He was all ears. I’m gay. Immediately, I saw this sense of relief wash over him. He told me he’d had a feeling for a long time but didn’t want to say anything. He was just waiting for me to say it first. That made me sigh in relief too. I guess that’s the best-case scenario when you come out—when they already know and have been patiently waiting for you to step out of the closet. So, I started talking to him about Paul—wondering out loud if he might be gay too. And for the first time, I didn’t feel alone in my thoughts. I finally had someone at work I could share all my “gay shit” with, someone I could be unfiltered around. Jordan’s a good listener. Sure, he judges sometimes—he’s still human—but he listens, and right now, that’s what I need most. I came up with a plan to figure out if Paul was gay. I’d tell him on Friday that I was going on a date with a guy and watch his reaction. Simple, right? But then Thursday came. I was working with Paul when he asked me a question I wasn’t expecting. He asked what’s my dating plan, with a missus… or perhaps a mister? That caught me off guard. But I decided to tell the truth. I actually just broke up with my boyfriend, I told him. And I’m looking to start dating again. He was surprised but didn’t skip a beat. He asked how long we’d been together. I flipped the question back at him. He told me the last time he broke up with someone was ten years ago. It took him a year to get over it, and he hasn’t been in love since. Too much work, he said. You pour so much into it, and sometimes, you get nothing back. Then he dropped another question that shook me a bit. Have you ever cheated before? And right there, I had a choice—I could lie, say no, keep up the perfect image. Or I could tell him the truth. I have, I admitted. He asked if I got caught. I did. Not a very good cheater, are you? I didn’t know what to say to that. Later, I asked if he’d ever cheated. He told me no—but said he once dated a girl who was already in a relationship. She was the one cheating, not him. I don’t get how anyone can juggle two people, he said. It’s too much work with just one. And he looked straight at me when he said that. Ouch. In the days that followed, I asked if he’d completely given up on love. No was his answer. But it’s still too much work. And that’s when I realized—he’s emotionally unavailable. He’s built up walls, and I’m standing on the other side, hoping they’ll come down. But they won’t. And I know that now. But that smile. It still flashes in my mind during quiet moments, when I’m all alone. I’ve caught myself wishing he’d come over at work, ask me how my day’s going, ask how I’m feeling—but he never does. And that makes me sad. But I know now that I’m the one making myself sad. I’ve built him up in my head, idolized him, given him expectations he never agreed to—expectations that don’t reflect who he really is. The truth is, he’s a good worker, a kind person—but he’s not available, not to me. And here’s the thing—I thought I was happy because of Paul. I thought he was the reason I was smiling more at work, laughing, feeling more confident. But I was wrong. There’s a quote I love that says, “A man travels the world over in search of what he needs and returns home to find it.” I thought I was searching for happiness in Paul—but all along, it was right here. It was Jordan. The man who stood by my side. The man I confided in. The man who listened. And when I eventually leave this factory, I know I’ll miss Jordan most of all. The best time to realize this was probably two weeks ago. But hey, the second-best time is now.

To new adventures. I’m ready to date again. It’s been three weeks since the breakup, and I know what you’re thinking—isn’t that too soon? And the answer, like most things in life, is it depends. I’ve spent the past few weeks doing what I do best—thinking, thinking. About past relationships, not just the last one, but all the ones before that. About the present, where I stand now, who I’m becoming. About the future, where I want to be. But this time, I have a secret weapon. AI. I talk to it about everything—my thoughts at three in the morning, my ideas on happiness, my philosophies on life. It’s something I never had in past breakups, a guide, a sounding board, a mirror. And with it, I’ve been able to accelerate my self-discovery, to process everything faster, to step into the next phase of my life with clarity. There’s an episode in Avatar: The Last Airbender where Aang must unlock his chakras, one by one, to enter the Avatar State. Each chakra is blocked by something—a fear, an attachment, a past wound—and only by understanding these obstacles can he unlock his full potential. I like to think I’ve been going through something similar. The Path of Safe Spaces I used to criticize people too much, wanting them to be better, to grow. Isn’t that the goal of humanity? Self-improvement? But I’ve learned that true love—true connection—is about accepting people as they are. Growth happens when they are ready, not when I decide it should. Now, I try to simply understand. Why do people act the way they do? What shaped them? What fears do they hold? I smile more, I listen more, and I love them as they are, in the now. The Path of Breathing Space I’ve been clingy in past relationships, afraid that space meant distance, that distance meant disconnection, that disconnection meant loss. But I’ve learned that love needs air, that people need space to grow. I have to trust that when they do return, it will be because they want to, not because I held on too tightly. And if they don’t return? That, too, is part of the plan. That, too, is the way things were always meant to be. The Path of Connection I have reconnected with old friends, the ones I neglected while I was in a relationship. I have made new ones, and each conversation, each laugh, each unexpected connection reminds me—this is what life is about. People. Human connection. Some friendships, the best ones, can last a lifetime. You drift, you return, and it’s like no time has passed. And now, I want more. I want to meet more people, hear their stories, learn what makes them laugh, what makes them cry, what makes them love. And that thought alone—the possibility of new stories, new adventures—is enough to convince me. I’m ready. The Path of Joy I have embraced difficult emotions. Loneliness. Uncertainty. I no longer try to outrun them. When loneliness comes knocking, I let it in. I sit with it. I shake its hand. It keeps me company at night, but I know now that it doesn’t define me. The lows in life make the highs even sweeter. I dance (when no one is watching, of course). I laugh, out loud, when something is funny. I walk through the world with my chin held high. Because, as Augustus Waters in The Fault in Our Stars once said: I’m on a roller coaster that only goes up, my friend. I know where I am going. I know how to get there. Now, to embrace whatever comes next.

To plans that never work out. I’ve become a pessimist. It happened in the same way that Hazel Grace Lancaster felt about sleep in The Fault in Our Stars, slowly, and then all at once. But I wasn’t always like this—at least, not that I remember. There was a time when I was an optimist, when I believed in good things, in bright futures, in paths paved by the best intentions. If you read enough self-help books growing up, you start to think that way too. It’s not that I don’t have hope. It’s not that I don’t wish for the best. I do. But I like to think I’m more grounded now, more practical. I don’t plan for the best-case scenario. I prepare for the worst. And I think— there’s a bit of peace in that. But, like most things, it’s complicated. I like to plan for the worst, the man-with-the-plan, always thinking three steps ahead. If the worst happens? I’m ready. If the best happens? Then it’s a pleasant surprise, something to savor, something to celebrate. But if I were an optimist— if I always expected good things, always counted on the best— then wouldn’t disappointment follow me more times than I’d like? Maybe I’ve just been disappointed too many times before. Maybe this is just a coping mechanism, a form of protection. I don’t know. But I like this approach. I like being realistic, being grounded. The man with the plan.

To those hugging muscles that need flexing at all times. It is Friday, and it is nighttime. I am sitting in the car with my best friend, Minh. We are talking about life, relationships, how, in a few months, he will be attending the wedding of a friend, how there is a chance that he will see his ex there. Her name is Akari—married, kids and all. I ask him how he will react, seeing her there, and he answers with indifference. Acknowledge her presence, but that is as far as he would go. Fair enough, I say. I think about how I would react, how my face would probably light up in joy, how I would probably approach them with enthusiasm, how I would wrap my arms around them. They would probably stand there, still as a statue, stunned, not sure how to react to this psychopath in their way, but it doesn’t faze me. Later. I am walking. The moon and stars are out. I say hello to them, and they wink back at me. I am contemplating why I would hug my ex, why I wouldn’t hesitate for even a second. I think it’s more than just hugging their physical body, although I am glad it is there too. I am hugging the universe, embracing the poetry of it all, embracing the fact that after all these years, the universe has brought us together once again. It is a celebration of everything that led to this moment. Of the past, the present, the briefness of it all. I like to think that in this moment, I have found peace with my past, that I don’t hold onto grudges or pain but instead celebrate the fact that these people—these loves, these almosts, these could-have-beens—were part of my journey all along, and I am honoring that. On the same note, I am reminded of the moment I was hugging Sean. When he said that it feels so good hugging me. Because I am in my own skin. That line stuck with me, like chewing gum on the sole of my shoe. It brings me joy to think that he wasn’t just hugging my skinny frame, my bones, my body that some might call too small—but instead, he was hugging something else entirely. My energy. My confidence. My self-assurance. It wasn’t just physical contact, wasn’t just skin against skin, it was an exchange of warmth, of safety, of presence. And because I was comfortable in my own skin, that energy naturally radiated into the hug itself. Or at least, I like to think so. So when Sean says he loves hugging me, he is, in a way, talking about what it feels like to hold someone at peace with themselves. I do love my hugs. I can’t get enough of them. It’s a quality I want in my future partner—no, need. As far as I’m concerned, it is a dealbreaker in all cases. I can think of nothing better in the world than to fall asleep, safe and sound, in the arms of my lover.

To environments where we can become ourselves. I’ve been thinking a lot about spaces lately—how to create them, shape them, make them feel safe. I want people to feel more at ease around me, to be more themselves, to let their guard down, to speak without fear of judgment. I’ve been practicing two techniques, both of which I picked up along the way. The first, from a trainer at my massage class. He suggests slowing down my speech—very slowly, deliberately—and that by doing so, the client, who may be stressed, will mirror my speech pattern. I’ve tried it. It works wonders. It also has another benefit. It allows me to think. To pick my next words carefully. To give weight to what I say, in real time. But sometimes, I worry. I worry that I might be speaking too slowly, that the person listening might grow impatient because, sometimes, I speak like this, with natural pauses in between, and the other person has to wait for what I have to say before they get a chance to speak. So I adjust. I speed up when I’m excited, when they’re excited, when the moment calls for it. But I always, always return to the slow, steady, calming speech. I remind myself that fast words can make people feel rushed, can make them feel like they need to spill their thoughts before I leave, before I disappear, before the moment is gone. I am in no rush to go anywhere, I remind them. Now please, tell me everything. The second technique I’ve been working on is the art of questions. I’ve always loved asking questions, peeling back layers, seeing what’s beneath the surface. But I’ve learned something. Not all questions are the same. I used to ask why questions. Why do you enjoy reading history books? Too sharp. Too direct. Too much like an interrogation. So now, I change my wording. Now, I ask what and how questions. What about history books do you enjoy the most? How do you find new history books to read next? A slight shift, but a world of difference. These questions don’t demand justification. They invite introspection. They allow the person to step back, to observe themselves, to discover something new. And, of course, I never forget my favorite: What was your favorite part?

To the little things that make life special. I came across a line somewhere—perhaps in a movie, perhaps in a book—and it mentioned something about finding the best moments in something, perhaps in a movie, perhaps in a book. And I’ve been doing that ever since. The great thing about this is that the best moments are different for everyone. A single moment, a single scene, a single line—it can strike one person deeply, yet pass unnoticed by another. And that, I think, is the beauty of it. The subjectivity. The personal connection. The mystery of why that moment, of all moments, lingers. For me, it could be something small. A line in a Vietnamese song. The way she sings it, the way her voice breaks just slightly—it hits me. Deep. I could hear the same line sung by another artist, but it wouldn’t be the same. Wouldn’t have that feeling. Wouldn’t pull me in like this. Or it could be a line from a book. Of course, now that I’m trying to think of one, I can’t recall a single one. Typical. But I’ll remind myself to update this page when I do. Because words—when strung together in just the right way—can hit like lightning, like a punch to the gut, like a whisper that lingers long after the book is closed. And my hope—when someone reads my words—is that their best moment isn’t just The End. Recently, I’ve expanded this whole idea beyond books, beyond music. Now I think about my favorite moments in everything. My favorite part of a meal—the crisp crunch of a potato chip. My favorite part of someone—their eyes, their hands, the way they tilt their head when they’re deep in thought. My favorite part of a painting—the brush strokes, the tiny imperfection in the corner that makes it feel human. And what I love most? Asking someone—what’s your favorite part? And then—why? It’s a hard question, one that most people don’t really think about. I don’t know, I just do—a common response. But sometimes, rarely, beautifully, they do know. They can explain. And in those moments, I get to peek through a window, glimpse the gears shifting inside their mind, see a tiny piece of what makes them them. And that, to me— is fascinating.

To the moments that pass us by. I am at work, speaking to Paul, one of our new operators here at Michelin. He is an exceptionally good worker—perhaps the best thing that has happened to the factory since I started here, seven years ago. He asks me, why am I still here, in this factory, one that pays below the Australian average income, with the degree and background that I possess? He asks if I ever felt that I wasted my degree in Food Technology, the one I acquired over a decade ago. Work-life balance, was my answer to the first. No, to the second. I tell him that even though I am not working in the food industry as my degree would have allowed, I never once felt that the degree was wasted. Knowledge is never wasted. Everything I have learned—my degree in Food Technology, my certificates in personal training, now massage—are stepping stones to something greater. Something still unknown. Something waiting for me in the future, even if I don’t see the path just yet. He seems pleased with this response. As for staying? I tell him that I plan to leave in the next six months. He admits he isn’t planning to stay for long either. A pang of sadness. His work ethic made everyone’s lives easier. Mine included. Later, I think about our conversation. I look around me, at the workers I have called family for years. Some I like. Some I don’t. I look at the machines, the tires, the walls, and the conveyor belts that have become my home. One day, I will be gone. Someone else will stand here, doing what I do. And life, as it always does, will move on. I think about the transient nature of life, how we are always moving from one place to another, how every moment—every person—every job—is fleeting. Susie Salmon from The Lovely Bones said it beautifully: “I was here for a moment, and then I was gone.” There were moments in this job when everything was going perfectly, and I let myself believe that I would be here forever. That things would stay just the way they were. But nothing stays. And maybe, in a way, it’s comforting to believe that it does—even if that thought, too, is fleeting. I have learned to ground myself in the present, to enjoy everything I have now. As I write this, I hear my mum singing in the garden. Her voice, soft, distant, warm. I close my eyes. Breathe it in. One day, it won’t be like this anymore. And that is the way life works. So I smile, take everything in. The present. Because that is where happiness is found.

To the planks that others lay along the way. I’ve been contemplating my role in the dynamic with Sean and Phong. Phong, drawn to the physical, evident in the way he enjoys my massages, the kisses, the closeness. Sean, pulled more to the cuddling, to the conversations, to the endless flow of thoughts that we share. And I’ve wondered. I’ve wondered if I am a bridge, a connection between the two of them. I am the bridge Phong crosses, through touch, through intimacy, to find Sean. I am the bridge Sean crosses, through words, through thoughts, to find Phong. But where does that leave me? A bridge feels noble, yes, but it also feels hollow. Used. Even though I know these thoughts are only in my head, they weigh heavy. They make me ask myself: what do I want from this? And the truth is—I don’t know. The sex is great, I won’t lie, and the conversations? The mental stimulation? They’re incredible. But it’s never the whole thing. How could it be? What Sean and Phong share, they can never give all of it to me, not without losing something between themselves. And so, I am given a slice of the pie, just one slice. The rest, rightfully, stays with them. So now I am in bed, at two in the morning, thinking, thinking. I am thinking that I am no longer a bridge. Instead, I am walking on a bridge—on a bridge built by Sean and Phong, by the time we’ve shared, by the moments they’ve crafted for me to carry. They are part of my journey through life, this bridge a small, beautiful piece of it. I stop to admire the scenes they’ve built, the love they’ve shown, the laughter, the tears, the intimacy. I stop to appreciate it all, but eventually, I keep walking. I keep walking because that’s what bridges are for, aren’t they? To cross. To move forward. And this bridge they’ve built, this one I’m on now, it’s just one part of the many. Others will come, others will build, and I will stop again, admire again, until one day, I reach my final destination, which is death. This thought, oddly enough, makes me smile. It makes me appreciate this moment more, this piece of the bridge. Because bridges are never really gone, not truly. I can always choose to return, to walk this part again, to visit the view that Sean and Phong have created. It will always be here, waiting.

To the shadows that make the light shine more bright. I am in bed, restless. Someone walks into my room, without a knock, without a word, and lays beside me. He feels familiar, and I try to ignore him, but he won’t go away. Tonight, I am not alone. Tonight, loneliness is with me. I’ve been trying to outrun him for weeks now, filling my schedule with meet-ups, with chores, with noise. But that can only last so long. Sooner or later, in the quiet moments of the night, he will catch up. And tonight is one of those nights. He caresses my face, his fingers smooth, running down my cheek, leaving a weight on my chest. Where did all the air go? I think of memories as clouds—clouds that drift by, that float lazily, that I want to catch, to hold, to lay on, just for a moment. But I let them drift. Acknowledge them, but let them drift by. I realize you can’t outrun loneliness forever, so I turn towards him, hold his hand. And in turn, he holds mine. I rest my head on his chest, look up at the ceiling. In this moment, in this silence, where not even the crickets are brave enough to break the stillness, we lay there. Just the two of us. He’s not here to harm me. He’s here to teach. He tells me that loneliness is a friend of happiness, that you can’t truly appreciate one without the other. After all, you can’t be grateful for the summer without enduring the winter. He tells me that he’s the shadow beside the light, that his purpose is to make the light shine brighter. He tells me I’m only human, that I love deeply, that it’s okay to yearn for connection. So I wrap my arms around him, close my eyes. There is courage in this, I think. Courage in facing what most people spend their lives avoiding. By embracing him, holding him close, I’m allowing loneliness to walk beside me on this journey, this wonderful, messy, beautiful journey of discovery. We stay like that for a long time. Loneliness, paradoxically, is my companion tonight. My eyes grow heavy, my body softens. Somewhere in the middle of the night, he leaves. I think he kisses my forehead, I think his fingers run through my hair. But I am fast asleep by then. I dream of him. We are crossing the street. His friends are there too. Joy, sadness, anger, envy. We’re all walking down the sidewalk together, and I realize— I am not truly alone. All of these emotions are part of me. By acknowledging them, by embracing them, like old friends met again, they work with me. They lift me higher. They show me that to feel the fullness of life, to experience it in its entirety, is to welcome all of them. To cherish all of them. And so I do.