Silence

When I sit down every morning to reacquaint myself with the click-klack of the worn Go stones, I could sometimes feel you tapping your heels together as we chatted about everything that came to mind as you skimmed the monthly Shonen Jump. Sometimes, you came over with a wooden fan and some tea, laughing that I was an old man and needed the props to play the part. As a gift for our one-year anniversary, you handed me my Go board you carved yourself, equipped with a fan holder and place to put my tea. I laughed and gave you a red scarf, red mittens, and a record. That night, we slept together under our little tree, warmed by tea and lulled to sleep by the pleasant tune of Norwegian Wood. You came over only wearing bright red, telling me that it clashed well with the black and white that dotted my room. The white sheets, the white walls, the white, tiled floor. The black furniture. You told me when you first walked in that life can’t only ever be about two things and that you would be the difference in my life. I told you that was deep and you grinned. You always grinned. It was in May, right after your last exam, that I woke up to a packed board and to you frantically piling my things into a small suitcase. We were going on a trip, you said. Home. Your family in HongKong, so loud and vivid and bold, cut me from my slow days. When I woke up every morning to trudge through the streets of Mong Kok, deafened by the roar of the crowd, I could only feel your small hand clench mine as we walked in silence. Sometimes, we would go to a small noodle shop and it would be only louder as we ate our breakfast, holding each other's hand while we fumbled with chopsticks. As another year passed, we left home, weary but hopeful. You gave me a pair of gloves, so that my hands wouldn't be cold when holding yours. I smiled and gave you a single tea cup, so your hands could always be warmed. That night, we slept together under our tree, warmed by tea and tired from a year of work.