Philip

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.

To chance encounters. I am at Sean and Phong’s apartment, sitting around the living table, each of us in our own chair. Small chats, questions, smiles, to get to know each other. There are half a dozen peace lilies on the floor next to the window, their leaves wavering with the wind from the balcony. On the table, a puddle of condensation is forming around the bottom of our mango smoothie cup. The conversation turns towards massage now. Why I did it, what I wish to accomplish. Phong mentions that he’s been having tight neck and shoulders lately, and I contemplate whether to offer him a massage or not. I hesitate for a moment too long, and the conversation shifts. I think to myself, if nothing happens, we’ll just sit here, talking for ages, so I stand, walk to him, offer him a massage. He smiles broadly. I tell him it’s difficult to massage with his shirt on. It’s off before I can blink. He asks Sean to grab moisturizer as a substitute for oil, and I begin massaging his neck. I tell him it’s better laying down, and before I finish the sentence, he’s up, walking to the bedroom, lying flat on his stomach. He is eager. So I massage him. Sean watches, curious, asking questions. Phong relaxes under my hands, enjoying the physical touch. My fingers follow the curve of his shoulders, the line of his spine. Afterwards, he turns to me, smiles, and we kiss again. Sean joins us. Clothes are off. We’re naked. Rough. Intimate. Sweaty. For the next hour, I am the center of their attention. We move, we laugh, we rest, we drink water. Phong reheats pizza while I stay in their bed, Sean holding me close. Cuddling. Kissing. My head rests on his chest. Silent. Still. It feels really good to hug you, he says. Why? Because you’re comfortable in your own skin. I think about that for a moment, about how far I’ve come on this personal journey. I thank him, warmly, and close my eyes. For a fleeting moment, I feel calm. I feel safe. I feel at peace. I know this moment is temporary, fleeting, fragile. It’s a space we created together, a space that fades when Phong announces dinner, a space tucked away when I’m in the shower, a space yet to be found again when we sit to eat pizza at 9 p.m. on a Saturday night. The TV plays Australian tennis. Outside, cars and trams and people rush by. We talk about how we met, piecing together the night from our own perspectives. And there it is, that feeling again. It sneaks up on me. Hits me, every time. Sadness. They had stayed that night to see the stars. I had returned to see if they were still there. By chance, by luck, by serendipity, we found each other again. The universe must have had its reasons. A clearing of clouds, a night full of stars, all aligned to bring us together. Pawns placed on a chessboard, moving in ways we’ll never fully understand. I am grateful for that night. Grateful for them. Grateful for the stars. Still, I wonder, what’s next? I don’t know the answer to that. I’m not supposed to. Not yet. The peace lilies will grow. The puddle under the mango smoothie will have long since dried. And life will move on— I hope, with all three of us, in the same direction.

To mementos that we collect along the way. I am parked outside of Sean and Phong’s apartment. I was confident on the drive here, in my resolve, in my decision to come. But now, now I am nervous for some reason. A part of me wants to chicken out, to turn the key, to drive back home, to where it’s safe, to where it’s quiet. But I’ve been looking forward to seeing them all week, so I muster the strength, send Sean a text: I’m here. I think I am nervous because I don’t know how we’ll connect— the three of us— since we’ve never really spoken, not in any real sense. It could go either way, I suppose. Sean appears, walking toward my car, his smile warm, his presence grounding. He gets in, and we kiss. Immediately. Intimately. Gently. I feel at ease, and I realize just how much I miss his kiss. His hand finds mine, and we hold each other there, and I’m confused. Isn’t this what lovers do? And Sean is in a relationship. But I don’t overthink, not now. I let the moment be what it is. I take everything in, I enjoy this, I enjoy us. After a while, he directs me to the carpark, and we take the elevator to his floor. Phong isn’t home yet. It’s just Sean and me, the two of us in his apartment. We kiss again, for a long while, before breaking for mango smoothies in the living room. His space is crowded, cluttered, filled with hundreds of things. My attention drifts to the shelves behind me, rows upon rows of monuments and knickknacks. Dozens of tiny souvenirs from across the world. Their travels, history, displayed for anyone to see. When Phong arrives, I walk up to greet him. We kiss. Sean joins, and now all three of us are there, standing, kissing, holding each other. It feels nice. Then we separate, settle into our own chairs, and start talking, small at first, easing into the night. At one point, I feel it. Sadness. A pang, sharp and sudden. I don’t understand it then, not until later, when I’m at home, lying in bed, staring at the ceiling. Twelve years. They’ve been together for twelve years. That explains the full shelves. That explains the weight in the air. That explains the pang. I think part of my sadness is knowing that they already have a history, a rich, full history, and I don’t know what my part is in their story now. Am I just a supporting character, just a footnote? Am I just here to fulfill a need, a physical desire? It reminds me of what I want, what I’m searching for. A relationship like theirs. Something deep. Something lasting. Something that spans a decade, two, more. And yet, I wonder— can their bond leave room for me? can I carve out a space for myself in their lives? Sean feels different. With Sean, there’s spiritual, emotional, and something that goes beyond the physical. But with Phong? With Phong, it’s just physical, surface-level, fleeting. And I see the balance Sean is trying to maintain, the delicate balance between loving, caring, being with Phong, and connecting with me. But I know, deep down, Phong comes first. Always. There’s a ceiling here, an emotional limit, and when I hit it, when I reach that point, I’ll have to decide—do I keep going? Do I let myself fall? Because falling for someone who can’t catch you— falling for someone who can only care for you as a friend— never ends well. So I think about my future, about what I need, about what I want. Emotional connection, that’s it. That’s the key. Physical attraction matters, yes, but without that emotional depth, it’s just not enough. It’s rare to find both. Rare to see a perfect blend of physical and intellectual. But it’s not impossible. And that’s what I’m searching for. That’s what I’ll strive for. Over the next twelve months, I’ll put myself out there, I’ll connect with people, I’ll open myself up to the possibility of something real, something lasting, something worth holding onto. What an adventure it will be.

Thank you for such a beautifully crafted metaphor with the old chair. It really does capture the lingering presence of grief so well, the way it hides in the corners of our mind, waiting for a moment to resurface. I love the way you described learning to control how often we sit there, even if we can’t completely get rid of it. It’s such a powerful and comforting way to think about grief and its place in our lives. Your words give me hope and perspective. I’ll hold on to that image for a long time.

To lonely nights. I am at Pipemakers, feeling particularly horny tonight. The car park is full, which is always promising, and I spot a rather muscular guy in a white t-shirt and shorts, walking to his car. We make eye contact, he circles back to the shed, and I make my way there too. There's quite a lot of guys here tonight. I make a quick lap around, survey the area. My mind wanders to this time last week, to Sean and Phong, to their faces, their warmth, and a pang of longing hits me. I'll see them tomorrow, I remind myself, push the thought away. There's a guy sucking another guy in the glory hole shed, a few others crowded around to watch, but I get bored, move on. I wander to one of the sheds, a man follows me. I can barely make out his features in the dark, but it doesn't matter. I'm here for one thing. He's inside my mouth in no time. We stay like this for a while. I get up for air, now we're kissing, now we're cuddling. It feels nice. My hand slides across his back, across the groove of his neck, and I give him a bit of a massage. He comes quickly, then leaves. In the glory hole booth, I meet an Asian man. He is tall, handsome, we kiss. I notice I'm very into kissing now, the kind of intimacy that lingers, that says more than sex ever could. My hand runs along his spine, across his neck, over his head. Caressing, touching, like lovers. He holds me too, but it's different. His hold screams fuck me, and I'm not in the mood. He jerks off, comes. We stay there a moment, embracing. I wonder if I should give him my number, so we can do this again, but something inside me hesitates. There's no strong connection, nothing tugging at me to ask, so I let him leave. I hesitate too long. He walks away without a goodbye, and I never see him again. I lean against the wall, rub my eyes. I feel tired. Physically, mentally. What's wrong with me tonight? I ask myself. Why am I giving these guys back and neck massages? I want to blame it on the massage course, on muscle memory, but deep down I know that's not it. Two weeks into being single, and I'm craving touch. Not sex—touch. It was something I had so much of in my last relationship, so much that my love bucket never ran dry. Now, it feels depleted, empty, hollow, and I can feel the effects of it creeping in. I think, maybe, my way of giving people massages is a way of asking for something back, for them to return the favour. But of course, no one does at Pipemakers. I think about past relationships, about the guys who didn't know how to hug me, didn't know how to embrace me, hold me, ground me in their arms. Those relationships didn't last long. The ones that did—the ones that mattered—were with the men who couldn't keep their hands off me. Who held me like they were holding the world. I make a mental note of this, add it to the list of things I'm looking for in my next relationship: warmth, safeness, touch. The kind that doesn't deplete you, the kind that fills you back up again.