Stories for a new year: Someday, Somehow

The woman next door was probably the only one who was happy about the pandemic. She finally had a convenient excuse. "My husband is working overseas. He can't return to Singapore because of the border closures." But everyone knew he'd left her for a younger woman. He'd not been home in years, but she continued to hang his clothes in the corridor from time to time to give the impression that he still lived there.

"That's sad," you said.

It was one of our usual online conversations. Monday to Saturday, 10pm to midnight, Singapore time. Tokyo is an hour ahead. Sometimes we talked via WhatsApp, other times we used Skype. On Sundays, we'd have a Netflix party. We took turns choosing what to watch, but after it became obvious you didn't like my picks, I'd secretly logged into your account to check which shows you'd favourited.

Days had turned to weeks and finally months, and then a year and more. In the blink of an eye, almost two years had passed, yet the pandemic was still going on.

I twirled a pen around my fingers. "Remember they told us it was going to end once summer arrived? And wasn't it supposed to be like Sars? Six months, give or take?" I chuckled. "How ironic."

"Uh-huh," you mumbled in agreement.

"Could you have imagined this was going to happen when we last saw each other in Narita?"

"To be fair, there were rumours..."

But we hadn't taken them too seriously. We were hopeful after spending the new year together in your flat in Sangenjaya. You'd just gotten a job and relocated. I still had things to settle in Singapore, but I'd bought a ticket to Tokyo to join you in four months.

Early April, one-way, just in time for the cherry blossom season. What could have been more cliched? But look at us now. 5,315km apart.

I sighed. "If I'd known, I'd have bought more snacks at the airport."

Or maybe I would have hugged you longer.

Or maybe I wouldn't have boarded that flight.

"Um." You paused. "You know, I was wondering if we can reschedule our next call to another time. The thing is, I agreed to co-host some talks on Clubhouse." You shuffled something around. "Is it okay?"

Of course not. "Which day?"

"We're trying to do it consistently every night."

This time, I kept silent.

"Can we do our call in the afternoon?"

"I have work," I said. "Working from home is still working."

"So I can't, can I?" You sounded annoyed.

"I didn't say that," I said. "Don't worry. Go for it. I'll think of something."

You thanked me for being understanding, but I wasn't. I was feeling hopeless.

More and more, I noticed the distance between us growing. Each time we quarrelled, you went further away. You built an invisible wall I couldn't scale. And there were small changes you probably thought I wouldn't realise, but I did.

Blame it on your social media addiction and my insecurity. As I pressed the 'like' button on your posts, I couldn't help but discern those adjustments you made around your apartment. You shifted my things away, at first putting them aside in a corner, and eventually, they disappeared. I imagined them in a carton box, somewhere. Out of your view, out of your mind. The space you'd said was for me was now filled with things I didn't recognise. I spotted a bottle of nail polish on your desk - couldn't remember the last time I used some.

I wasn't sure why I pretended not to notice. You could say I was sick of arguing.

Whatever we had was no longer there. But once, I did care, even in ways you couldn't appreciate.

"Ah. A friend invited me this Sunday to do a Zoom protest and I told her I'd come," you said.

I tried hard not to sneer. A protest, but via Zoom. Yeah, sure. Plus you'd already decided, so why bother asking me? But instead of saying all that, I kept quiet.

The pandemic really brought the worst out of all of us. It showed us our true nature, how we coped with difficult situations. How you chose to deal with yours, and how I chose to turn a blind eye.

I stared at my tabletop calendar. But hey, it was a new year. People were starting to feel sentimental and all kinds of optimism might seep in. Perhaps, even a dose of reality and a dash of bravery. Maybe that woman next door would eventually round up her husband's belongings and put them in a donation box. And who knows, maybe I'd find the courage to ask you the questions we should've asked each other months ago.