We’re going to an incredibly small island tomorrow, so diminutive in size that its coastline may be walked in about twenty minutes. From above, it appears as a mere streak of white sand amidst the vastness of the sea, as though a single wave, if vengeful enough, might swallow it whole. This very island was once a cherished destination, a place my friends and I had resolved to visit a year prior, our hearts brimming with anticipation. Yet that hope was cruelly severed by a storm, which compelled the coastguards to deny all passage, casting gloom and bleakness into our spirits, which for months had been high with excitement.
It is, without doubt, an ideal refuge from the clamour of the digital world—a sanctuary devoid of electricity and reception, one of its charming qualities that draws the attention of anyone who wishes to escape into a paradisiacal confinement. My friends and I had planned to spend the night there. However, tomorrow, with my sister's family as my company, it won’t be nearly as much fun as it would have been with amigos. We shall not remain overnight either, as the absence of modern comforts would be an inconvenience to the two-year-old little monster we carry.
I feel no thrill at the prospect at all. If anything, what might have been a balm to the soul now looms as a duty—a disruption to the quiet suffering I’ve grown accustomed to. The necessary preparations I must endure are a mental exhaustion, not to mention having to wake up at three in the morning, which is the time I usually go to bed—or, of late, call someone, so that the soothing cadence of his voice calms me to sleep.
There remains much to be done: my single pair of slippers must be cleaned, my brows trimmed, the slight coarseness beneath my arms shaved. My attire must be chosen with care, my belongings assembled, and my hair curled without heat, lest it trouble me in the morn. When the clock hits three, I must wash my body swiftly and prepare my make-up, for I will not permit myself to face the day—much less a place so picturesque—looking like Sadako or a zombie. What if a soulmate travels with us? Perhaps sharing our boat, perhaps raising a glass upon the sandbar.. But it is not the romantic chance I dread, it is the toil before it. I’m already rendered weary just thinking about the whole ordeal. I don’t want to go. At the same time, I can’t pass up the opportunity either, since it’s such an idyllic place.
Should I bring swimwear? We are to return home by the afternoon, and I do not anticipate immersing myself in the sea’s embrace, for it will ruin my face—most especially my hair. Ah, one would say, but the water there is magnificent! True. But I am simply not looking forward to it. Perhaps I should bring a pair just in case.
I suddenly remember a silly memory from when I was in a long-distance situationship with my first love, Jacob, who resided in Los Angeles:
“I peed in the ocean. Can you check if it’s arrived there in California?”
Ah, the cringiness of a teen in love. If only my pee could reach Germany and poison Johannes should he come in contact with it.
But I digress.
My sister hopes they offer drone shots. The images will be exquisite, though I have no place to share them now. I long ago abandoned the curated life of Instagram and have no desire to return. Although there remains Telegram, which I seldom visit now, usually to post something in hopes Johannes would open it. Such small interactions feed my delusion that our dead connection, even just for a fleeting moment, revives in the form of a faint and singular heartbeat. And my foolish hopes are sustained, no matter how weak and frail.
But the camera detests me. I absolutely hold no fondness for how my face appears in a photograph—let alone the awkward poses that come with it.
My head aches. Sister and her husband had gone out to procure necessities for the morrow, and had just returned. I sit in quiet hope that, upon emerging from this toilet, I shall find Belgian waffles upon the dining table. One or two would suffice for my dinner.
Update: YES. There are Belgian waffles. In front of the mirror, my sister now parades her newly bought swim attire, sunglasses, beach dress, and accessories she is to wear for the trip. She asked for my thoughts; they look great. The necklace she bought is especially lovely. Too bad she didn’t purchase an extra that I could borrow, but she gave me a pair of round dangling earrings.
I am in the shower now as I write this. I must wash early in order to curl my hair heatlessly as soon as it gets mildly damp. My long and naturally straight hair is awfully thick and rebellious, therefore I must give it more hours for the curls to tighten before I release it tomorrow.
Now, I’m going to prepare my playlist on Spotify.
Just got out of the shower. Nails! Storms, I still have to paint my nails. Ugh. Well, I already rid them of the surrounding deadened skin a few days ago, so cleaning them again won’t take much time. Still, I do not believe I shall be able to sleep at all tonight.
I just realised today is the 2nd of May. It was on this exact day, two years ago, that I declared my love for Johannes through an unsent letter. How pure my love was for him then... Now, it’s darkened with hostility and vindictive anger.
It is ten minutes past two now. I long for someone’s voice. I guess we won’t be watching Hunter x Hunter tonight.