The moment I step out of the car, the guilt starts tickling my ear. It’s a small nibble at first, but as I drag my luggage into the airport, it becomes an aggressive tugging.
When I see the flight number printed on my boarding pass, that excitement is brought to a boil. There is no other way to describe it: it’s a childlike excitement, like when you taste red licorice for the first time. An explosion of sour. Thrilling, but painful.
As I wait for time to pass before I board, I have this sudden yearning for my own bed. I reminisce the tranquil events of the past few days—seeing friends for the last time, saying painful goodbyes that don’t really feel like goodbyes because you’ll talk to them again, and looking at photos of parties where you realize it’s the last time you’ll get to see everyone in one place. Their smiles are crystallized, immortalized in the blue hue of the film. The moment lives on forever. The friendships may fizzle out and die, and you might not be close in ten more years, but in this moment, in this second, you were their ride or die.
The last times. The last time I felt the lukewarm water of my shower on my face. The last time things were truly mine. I can still imagine it, and feel it. Harsh light muted from my window, its soft warmth still prominent on my face; the mirror steaming up with mist and the deafening noise of water hitting the floor. A sensory overload, but still calming in its own way. I felt everything in that moment and in hindsight became the weight of it. Tried to absorb every last moment like my skin absorbing the water. Tried to fill every pore with old memories, only to have new ones rushing in to take their place. Dread permeated the air. I climbed into bed one last time and pulled the covers over myself, trying to memorize every odd shadow the peculiar lights made. Trying to memorize the way my room sounded, how the linens felt.
I tried. But when you try too hard to live in the moment, you end up passing it.
Moving to a new country is conflicting. Like I said, it’s sour. It’s riveting to imagine yourself in a new place, with new friends and a fresh slate to rewrite yourself—to romanticize the experience the Pinterest board you’ve saved has promised for you. But the feeling of leaving the people you love behind, the immense block of guilt: it chokes you. The mere thought of it is enough to put you on a rollercoaster, but this time you have the choice to go down the lift hill. You sit there, teetering over the edge with the burden of knowing that you put yourself in this position. If you go down, the feeling will be thrilling, but you’ll be thrusting yourself into the unknown. It’s an abyss.
It didn’t feel like home at first. It just felt like a place I called home.
The pandemic made travelling seem like a nostalgic memory, and in a lot of ways, it was. I and the sixty seven other people on the flight were reliving an echo of the past. What was once considered a luxury is now a danger—I do not dare talk to other people, and people don’t dare to talk to me. Even when we’re sitting, all masked up and isolated, we’re weary of our surroundings. Being within a metre of someone sends xylophones of fear up my spine, and don’t even mention someone touching me. As much as I’d hate to admit it, the pandemic has alienated me.
Once I landed, the trepidation that I had felt just dissipated into the air. It was a new chapter, a new beginning, and what could be more exciting than that? I could rewrite myself as a brand new character. Scrap all the old parts of myself that I hated, edit in the contemporary details. I was like a doll in a factory: customizable. I could remove my eyes and shine them, polish them. I could switch my legs for longer ones; could make my lips a little plumper. But no matter how much I cut my hair or changed my makeup, I still felt the same. My essence was the same. It never changed.
Now, when you’re in a different country, you know virtually no one. You have no choice but to meet new people and make new friends. And when you finally do see them, it’s daunting; the pandemic has done us no better either. Lockdown after lockdown, you eventually forget how to socialise.
Sweat collects on my upper lip underneath my mask as I step into my friend’s house for the first time. I take off my shoes, placing them neatly on a rack, and as I walk into the foyer, I am greeted by a sea of smiling faces and waving hands.
The panic starts to set in. I haven’t had a real-life interaction with anyone besides my family for ages.
I’m sure everyone around the world has felt this sort of discomfort, whether it be triggered by the pandemic or not. Before this, I had only ever video-called my friends with the solace of being able to mute myself or turn off my camera when I needed to. But there is no mute button in real life for something you said that didn’t quite doesn’t quite come out right. There is no option to hide yourself in front of dozens immediately. Being in the present—with people where you have to seem suddenly socially acceptable—is hard after months of isolation. I don’t have the comfort to plan out my words here like I do in texts, no backspace when I want to take it back. I simply just have to deal with it. I plaster a smile on my face, grab a cup, hastily write my name on it and attempt to converse with people. Their faces seem different when they’re not on a screen: colourful, vibrant, and loud. I can see the glimmer in their teeth, the knot in their hair, all their flaws and beauties for exhibit under this harsh fluorescent light. I wonder if they can see all my flaws too. I shake the thought immediately when someone comes up to me. These are my friends; they wouldn’t judge me. Or would they?
The conversation continues. Everyone is making small talk, their faces and mouths all wound up tightly. The bathroom is constantly occupied. Half the people here are on their phones. Then I realize something: they haven’t had any social interaction either, besides perhaps the cashier at our local supermarket. They’re all nervous, just like I am. Their social batteries have gone from 100% to a mere 60. I start to relax, unclenching my shoulders and loosening the deathly grip I have on my cup.. I wipe the hair from my face that hangs like drapes on a curtain, and I go up to someone, starting a conversation. It’s easy enough at first—we have things in common, like our love for Nick from New Girl, hatred for mumble rappers, and guilt for overdue assignments. But more people start to merge into the group, placing tension on the conversation like an overblown balloon. I place a needle over that balloon. Hover over it for a few seconds. Then prick it. The tension is released and glosses over us, and the sweet, slick sound of music drunkens us. We start to dance, hugging each other and holding hands. We’re all loose again. Our faces are more familiar, full of genuine smiles and musical laughter.
The pandemic has done a number on everyone. Even with our phones right in front of us, with the ability to just send a “How are you?” text, we don’t. Sometimes we only spend time with people because we’re forced to.
Maybe, sometimes a little push out of the car is all we need.