Fallback Friend

Dear friend,

Do you remember innocence? I don't. I can't visually recall how my childhood, my middle school years looked like. I don't recall vividly how I stepped on the Tembalang grounds, innocent still, from my high school years to college years. The wide-eyed realization that after that class at 7am, you would have a 2.5-hour break before the next, and I innocently chose to go back to my room and sleep or read. For this sudden change of lifestyle, I was lost. There were so many people to be friends with, or enemies with, for that matter. But I do remember the feeling clearly: How I can fall back in hard times, knowing that somebody's always got me. I could always tell this to someone, whomever I was friends with at the time.

Do you remember the breaking of innocence? The sweet, unmistakable taste of reaching for, defining, and cementing your agency for the first time. That time when one decided to kiss that boy, or when he decided to live in with someone for the semester, or when he decided to skip that class just because. It was precarious times. As the number of semesters piled up, friendship attributes hardened. At the end, there was a circle who was ready to support whatever decisions you made. After that certain encounter, so perverse that one couldn't believe that he'd done it, they were ready to listen without reservation. I don't recall much about it, but I remember how easy it felt.

We fell back to our friends.

It felt so safe, almost so blinding that I was convinced that if life were to stay exactly like this, everything would be fine. But life never stayed the same.

After the Czech Republic, after Cambodia, after a late KKN, life began to be complex, a little end of a knot not finding the other end. But you stayed ready, so permanent, with your ex who is now married to another. After a long day battling with confusing romance or a power struggle in a place where power struggles should've been ironic, you would ask me to drop by. I would stay until past midnight.

You played lagu melayu on your stereo system. I hated it at first, and it turned out to be an acquired taste. Between my constant nagging for a repeat and quick breaks for Indomie goreng, we talked about a lot of things. With no more classes to sit in, we talked about the future, and I told you I would probably teach as a vocation.

I wish I could bring the old you to where I am right now. I teach now as a vocation, among other things. I go to the gym now. But you're nowhere near me.

When I fall back, I hit the ground. You're not here to save me.

It's been eight years since the last time I stepped into your room, and we've come a long way from there. Admittedly, I don't always think of you. Since your time, and several others, I've come to learn that in different difficult times in life, there will be a specific set of people to come to my aid. But also admittedly, when I get home after a grueling day, I think of you. I yearn for you.

It's unreal how you've left crumbles in me to carry throughout my life. I have a lagu melayu playlist for the gym. When I went to Yogyakarta last month with my co-workers, I did a Cindai karaoke, a song familiar enough for the others to sing along, although they were unfamiliar with my thought process to arrive at the song selection. Even when I was still in a relationship with someone from Bengkulu, my lagu melayu repertoire, inspired by you, was the basis to build rapport with their mother.

As you're probably feeling right now, it's become extremely lonely. You're in your 30s, and I'm approaching it. But writing this, thinking about you, is a testament of the foundation of our friendship that requires no constant presence.

I wish I could tell you about the goings-on of my life as easily as it was back in Semarang. I teach now! And my students continue to inspire me. I go to the gym now, and would you like to feel my biceps? But you're there, and I'm here.

Even when I'm alone and sad like this, I can fall back on you. Your memories. Your kindness. Wherever you are, in whatever situation you're in, I hope you feel the same.