Open letter to Supernova.

Dear Supernova,

I remember wiping my hands dry from washing your dishes as you looked down at your kitchen tiles and told me, “You’ll leave someday. Everyone does.” It was said with such hopelessness in stark contrast to how definitively you would speak of us. You’d tell me we merged souls and that you wanted my friendship for life. In our tired evenings with a list of chores and adulting at hand, you’d tell me to put it all away and come live a life of sandy beaches with you in Fiji. You’d tell me about how excited you were to take me across the world to honor the novel patience and friendship I’d shown you. It saddens me how far our friendship has fallen since those days.

I’m writing this letter to reclaim space for myself within my own mind, body, and soul. For me, connecting with myself means being kind. Sometimes I direct that kindness toward others instead of myself. Showing myself the same kindness I’ve shown you means honoring my past, harvesting my present, and watering my future. You’re going to hear me be both stern and reminiscent in this letter. I have my hopes for what you’ll do with these words, but you have your own journey in life; do as you please, but you should know I don’t write these letters for just anyone. If my words come through as intended given the circumstances, you’ll be the same mix of sad and hopeful that I am as I write, and this letter will be the same mix of bittersweet and inevitable that you always knew our friendship would be. As you read this letter, know that I enjoyed our time together and have no regrets about us. I’m going to sound disappointed, then angry, and finally grateful. 

I wished you’d waited until you were ready to take responsibility before reaching out to me again. Your message spent analyzing me and insinuating that I’ve been stewing on things for months out of my own choice to find significance where it doesn’t exist is deeply insulting given everything we’ve been through together, and it displays to me that you’re not ready to embrace the truth of what happened a year ago. It doesn’t matter how much you preface it with being curious about my thoughts or values and that you mean no disrespect. The implications absolve you of all accountability, and that kind of one-sided companionship has no place in my life.

There reaches a point where things stop being platonic, no matter how much you keep calling it that. I took you seriously and pulled back my affections after you sent me that first message stating it’s not a good time to date. You reopened that door when you held my hand and told me you’d return my affections someday, when you called me your lover, your partner, and your dog’s stepdad, and when you returned my kisses. You did and said countless things that convey one thing: I was more than a friend to you. Whether you felt that way on the inside doesn’t change what happened on the outside. You knew you were in way too deep and that’s why you needed to pull back so harshly to my face the night before my trip to England. When I called you out on everything you did, you had no answer for me except advising me not to read into what you say. 

My self-esteem and self-image were distorted for months after our talk, and it’s not because I “let things affect me” but because I actually went through something awful and worth feeling awful over. I couldn’t even dream for a month after that night. I was convinced you felt a certain way about me due to your own actions, then you pulled the rug out from under me in April, then you said you liked me back in September, and now you have the gall to suggest I broke my own heart. 

I’ve been so patient with you. You broke my heart and refuse to own up to your half of what led to that night before England. You damaged a trip that was years in the making with lifelong friends. You used my car dishonestly. You took my money and ran. You’ve lied to me so many times and they weren’t even good lies. You have no idea the kind of reflection I had to do to move on from that night. You hurt me to the point of growing up. You don’t get to speak to me as if I’m still the person you changed.

I don’t care that I lost you as a potential lover; I care that I lost you as a friend. I lost someone I’d merged souls with. Every time you’ve sporadically reached out, I’ve always felt it coming. There would be times I had sudden and inexplicable urges to cry only to check my messages and see that you’d reached out in some form. I’d called out sick from work for the first time in months for a mental health day right before you sent me that song. We merged souls to the point of being on the same emotional schedule, and that’s what makes this loss of friendship so painful.

I had so much fun with you. From hitting golf balls into the Redactetd River at three in the morning to carrying some random table through a quiet alleyway, we created so many core memories that I’ll look back on fondly. I’m going to miss dinner with your family, your mom’s questions about the gym, your dad’s grilled asparagus, your dog’s endless energy; I’m going to miss it all. The nights we spent cooking dinner while The Backseat Lovers played on your speakers were some of the best I’ve ever had the unquestionable joy of experiencing in my life. 

I’ve spent much time digging deep and asking myself why I showed you so much grace and patience. I realized that I thought if I could just be a good enough person, I could save you from what Redacted and Redacted did to you, the same way I thought if I could just be a good enough son, I could save my mom from what my brother and father have done to my family. In the end, I’m thankful that you chose a terrible night to have such a brutal talk. I couldn’t heal your trauma during our time together, but you healed mine in the most roundabout way. I hope I’m the last guy the lines became blurred with. I hope my absence calls you to seek out genuine friendships that you’re ready to reciprocate in. I hope I’m the last person in your cycle as you were in mine.

Be honest with people you want to keep around; you’re not good at lying. Hold yourself accountable for your half of things; you know when things aren’t your fault, starting learning when they are. Lean into discomfort and clumsiness; you won’t find the answers to your questions if you run off golfing and partying every time you feel bad. Continue healing from everything that stops you from living the life you want; you’ve been through a lot, and you owe it to yourself not to live a life of escape and suffering.

I won’t be maintaining these random exchanges every few months. I won’t be able to see your response to this; while I hope you read these words and strive to better your life, this message is ultimately for me to take up the space I should’ve before I left to England. I want us to honor this closed chapter by bettering ourselves in separate directions paved by our own healing, values, and aspirations. 

It was bittersweet, but I thought it’d be wonderful if you could return to me on a better path someday. In the emotional fallout and growth that followed our friendship, I applied for a promotion at work and got what I wanted. My position was left vacant and filled by a young lady I now share an office with. Immediately, I knew it was you. As she shadowed me during her first week, I had a distinct feeling that I was spending time with you again. She has your anxiety, your voice, your snicker, your country and British accents, your height, and even your ears. She’s different from you in the same ways, too. Where you’re unabashed, she’s cautious. Where you’re numb, she’s overwhelmed. Where you sought my patience, she praises my boundaries. Most importantly, where you welcome ambiguity, she embraces clarity. We’ve developed an amazing friendship in a short time with nothing left to interpretation: we are friends without mixed feelings about the roles in each other’s lives. She’s in the same emotional space you left me in a year ago, and I’m blessed to give her all the tools I have in moving on to live a happy life. The last thing you and I said in person was, “I’ll see you in the morning”; she and I say that to each other every day. She’s what the cosmos has rewarded me with for pushing through the emotional anguish of parting souls from you. She’s the friendship we should’ve had. 

One day, I’ll return to you as someone else. He’ll have a different name and face, but you’ll feel and know that it’s me. Just as I loved all sides of you, he may want to be your cherished friend, or he may want to be your devoted lover. You’ll have another chance at an honest, caring, nurturing, patient, and timeless merging of souls. When you do, I hope you’ll have grown enough not to push it away. I hope you’ll have the courage to hold it close and never let it go. 

Sincerely, 

Maxine

The Final Sick Hug.

Oh gosh, just about a whole year without an entry. I’m so sorry my loves. I’ve been busy setting out on that personal project of self-discovery I call Chrysalis with my little emotional bindle over my shoulder.

Long, heavy read ahead. Don’t feel pressure to read this all at once.

So, what’s been keeping me?

Allow me to start with a nonsensical paraphrasing of my most dramatic moment of 2024 and take you for a ride as I build around it.

I gave the universe one final sick hug.

Got your attention? Sweet.

Part I: Big Bang

For this entry, I need to explain three personal concepts first.

"1. Space Terrors

Have you heard of the “Irresistible force paradox”? It asks “What happens when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object?”

When I was itty bitty, I’d have awful nightmares of two unstoppable forces speeding toward each other. It was a distinct, nearly indescribable anxiety I struggled to find words for. These unstoppable forces often hurled themselves through space and sometimes they’d mold themselves into odd shapes and clusters that resembled my family’s faces. I grew out of these anxieties as I approached kindergarten and thoughts of school quickly replaced my nighttime terrors, but to this day, I always remember the feeling of what I call my “Space Terrors” from those preschool years.

Keep that in your back pocket, okay? Now, another concept.

2. Stardust

After meeting a delightfully handsome soul, I started flirting with the idea of soulmates.

I met a woman so frightfully beautiful and wonderful that I couldn’t conceive of her having such a hold on me without being a lover from some past life. I started writing poem after poem about stars and galaxies because it was the only way I could make sense of how I felt about her. I called the concept “Stardust” and it quickly snowballed into an adventure of “gravitating” toward the soulmate I’ve loved throughout time and space. Each significant soul before and after this lovely woman suddenly became Stardust with her own special name and life lessons as to what went right and wrong. Movies like Past Lives and Everything Everywhere All At Once with themes of love transcending current timelines would make me bawl my eyes out. Stardust was equal parts confessing my affections, finding my stride as a poet, journaling my love life, a current muse, and every woman I’ve ever loved.

My love life was suddenly broken up into chapters named Letter, Artist, Sunflower, Pink, Breeze, and Medusa (the original Stardust).

Yes, if you’ve caught on, it is good old hopeless romanticism.

Okay, one more concept, then we’ll get to the gossip.

3. The Sick Hug

Remember when you were little and the adults would say “Don’t come near me, you’ll get sick,” when they had the sniffles? Yeah, I NEVER listened, and I got sick every single time. Friend, family, classmate, whoever, it didn’t matter who you were. I always bit the bullet and spent time with you because the thought of someone having to be alone at their most vulnerable was too painful for me as a kid. This translated over to my adult dating life as I quickly found my love life’s pattern to be disorganized attachment styles and dramatically rare diseases. My commitment to these lonely souls who push everyone away was what I called The Sick Hug, a love language of unhealthy patience and forgiveness, and instead of coughs and sneezes, I started catching tons of heartache.

Okay, still with me? Little recap.

1. Space Terrors - Unfathomable preschool anxieties of otherworldly family-shaped proportions speeding toward each other.

2. Stardust - Galaxy themed hopeless romanticism.

3. The Sick Hug - Unhealthy love language stemming from a childlike wish for no one to be lonely.

Enough exposition. Grab your beverage of choice. Kick your feet up. Slap on “Tek It” by Cafuné. Gossip time.

Part II: Supernova

The year is carrying on. I’m doing my thing. I’m getting my coffees and writing my poems. I’m trying to fulfill my yearlong project of experiencing ways to feel beautiful and combatting my iffy self-esteem.

I ended up sweet-talked into my first ever situationship, a rite of passage for one’s late 20s where you act like a couple without putting a label on things for the whimsy of freedom at the cost of security and formality. I was swept off my feet by an egregiously charming and deeply complicated soul named Supernova (a la Stardust). We were polar opposites that shared a bunch of trauma and found safe spaces in each other’s souls. As we’d talk for hours and hours, her eyes swirled with specs of green and orange like autumn leaves on a grassy field.

Supernova had a rare illness, trusted next to nobody, and made me feel like the only boy in the world, a prime receiver of The Sick Hug.

Sooo, yeah, I was hooked. We were glued at the hip, from cooking together till five in the morning to their parents asking her why we don’t date, you name it. She’d call me her lover and partner, even her dog’s stepdad. She said all the right things at the right moments. She gifted me a vintage typewriter for my writing because she misheard my birthday. She snuck IKEA furniture into my apartment, dude.

She’d grab my hand during a sunset and say, “I’m surprised you’re not sick of me yet.”

I’d reply, “I miss you after just a couple hours.”

I was head over heels, but as with almost all situationships, it quickly came crashing down.

My international gaming group, whom I’ve spent thousands of evenings with online since fifth grade, was meeting up for the first time in England; one of us was getting married and we found it a perfect occasion to finally see each other face-to-face. I was about to spend a week and a half overseas and I found the ordeal so exciting yet dreadful. I’d been inseparable from Supernova and was about to miss her for almost two weeks, so I thought I’d cook her an extra affectionate dinner before heading off to England.

Carbonara is a special dish to me, it’s my ultimate “I love you.” The best meal I ever had was a hearty carbonara on a patio in San Francisco’s Little Italy as the warm sun shined on my face. It reminds me of a time where everything was just right, so I wanted to extend that feeling to Supernova. I wanted to be daring and thoughtful by learning how to make pasta from scratch and sharing my first attempt with her, and so I did.

Huge success. She loved it, but it was the last calm before a storm.

That night, she initiated the “here’s what we are” talk every situationship either dreads or pursues. It ended in her saying we’re not a thing in the harshest ways she could and even went as far as to deny all that we’d shared. She sat across from me, looked me in the eyes, and said “I’m just gonna say this how I have to for people who don’t understand I’m not into them. I’m not attracted to you.”

“Where did you learn what it means to reciprocate?
And how much can I be expected to tolerate?
So I started to think about the plans I made
The debt unpaid
And you just can't call a spade, a spade”

I was in such shock that I didn’t even cry. I just went numb.

Four hours later, I was on my way to England.

We wrapped up our night.
I packed my bags.
I sat in a corner of my apartment and stared at the wall for four hours.
She woke up and took me to the airport.
I clocked ten hours of listening to “I Love You So” by The Walters on the way there.
I arrived in England heartbroken.
I constantly flipped between dissociating from heartache and being present with my friends.
I watched my friend shed tears as he exchanged vows with the love of his life.
I clocked another ten hours of “I Love You So” on the way back.
I arrived home and she picked me up from the airport.

I learned the fallout of a situationship isn’t the most polished process. We went through that awkward transition of “We’re not something, we’re not nothing, one of us wants nothing but keeps giving something, one of us wants something but is starting to feel nothing, it hurts to be apart, it hurts to be together, and neither of us know what to hold on or let go of.” I’m not talking just unspoken residual feelings from afar, I’m talking getting oddly territorial about me and leaving flowers on my car in the middle of the night.

“I watch the moon
Let it run my mood
Can’t stop thinking of you
I watch you (Now I let it go)
(And I watch as things play out like)
So long, nice to know you, I'll be moving on”

I carried the weight and guilt of being her only friend but wanting to pull away, relapsed into an old eating disorder, and spiraled into a depression. As I laid in bed a month after the events trying to figure out what to do with the situation and myself, a wave of absolute terror washed over me that I hadn’t felt since I was little. It was a primal fear. It was a Space Terror. Something about how deeply unhealthy my connection to Supernova was triggered an anxiety so integral to my core that it brought me back to a time where I physically didn’t have words for what I was feeling. I was still so numb, but the Space Terror woke me up from my heartbroken stupor just enough to start chipping away at the walls I propped up.

The months that followed the talk were such a haze of trying to heal and let go. At one point, I found myself in Supernova’s backyard, her hand on my wrist as she guided my arm to point out the stars to me. She’d task me with finding Mars and Jupiter while she’d put her cigarette out on Venus and Saturn like the night sky was one big ashtray and all the planets were little remnants of a good smoke. The obvious imagery and symbolism of Stardust became too painful to stare at for long. My eyes fell from the night sky and over to her. Through the puff of smoke escaping her lips, I stared straight into her parents’ fig tree and was reminded of the famous quote from Sylvia Plath’s The Bell Jar:

“I saw my life branching out before me like the green fig tree in the story. From the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked. One fig was a husband and a happy home and children, and another fig was a famous poet and another fig was a brilliant professor, and another fig was Ee Gee, the amazing editor, and another fig was Europe and Africa and South America, and another fig was Constantin and Socrates and Attila and a pack of other lovers with queer names and offbeat professions, and another fig was an Olympic lady crew champion, and beyond and above these figs were many more figs I couldn't quite make out. I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn't make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet.”

And just like in the passage, I saw my life branching out before me.

I saw the futures and timelines where Supernova's actions matched her words, where we followed through and worked out, where she breaks my heart even worse than she already did, where I grow apart from her, where I crowd bookstore shelves with my writing, where I compete at an elite level of powerlifting, where I find love at a coffee shop, where I teach my oldest child how to defend the youngest, where I slow dance with my wife in our new and unfurnished home with just a bluetooth speaker and pizza boxes on the floor, where I go mad and litter my apartment with newspaper and paint buckets as I try to capture the moment it all went wrong on a canvas, where my name rolls up on the credits of a big video game's writing team, where I fly to Iceland and carry the Húsafell Stone, where I quietly retire to Germany after a long life full of adventure, where I sob and scream at the moon during a mid-life crisis night drive, and where I move on from all things that have affected me the way Supernova has.

“We started off in such a nice place
We were talking the same language
I o-open and I'm closing
You can’t stand the thought
Of a real beating heart
You'd be holding, having trouble
O-o-owning and admit that
I am hoping”

As I started to heal and the sick hug around Supernova slowly weakened, it became silently clear between us that there was a heavy conversation to be had and neither of us had the courage to initiate it. There was a huge elephant in every room we entered. The times we shared became fewer and farther between. There was so much to be said, but how do we say it?

How do I find the courage to say:

“You hurt me so badly that I wish to be alone for some time.”
”I need you to stop leaving flowers on my car in the middle of the night.”
”Only someone purposefully committed to me can call me their lover, partner, and dog’s stepdad.”

It turns out the answer is much simpler than you may think.

TEQUILA! Tequila and Adele.

Adele recently performed in Munich. Something about her shows always ending with a tearful and raspy-voiced “Someone Like You” eased me into the harsh emotional space I needed to make myself familiar with. It makes me cry on demand. I never understood Adele’s music as a kid, but after meeting Supernova, it resonated at the perfect time with themes of yearning and regret across a mature approach to romance. Adele takes three-six-nine-month-esque rules, zodiac compatibility charts, and says, “Shush. You have never been in love. Be in the moment.”

Roughly five months after the carbonara fiasco, I went to my bestie’s birthday bash at a local pub. Some random guys bought the whole table a round of tequila and disappeared into the night. I downed it on an empty stomach and was emotionally trashed. I drove home and Supernova was waiting outside my place a touch before midnight.

We caught up for a few hours before the liquid courage kicked in. She was just on her way out before I asked the dreaded question:

“Can I talk to you about something?”

And, gosh, the moxie I summoned for the next hour felt so alien, so uncomfortable, yet so necessary.

I started by saying, “This isn’t one of those dreaded conversations where your guy friend admits he likes you. It’s actually the opposite, sorta.”

Then, my whole heart and soul poured out from my mouth, and so much was said, some of them being:

“The way you left me flowers was triggering because I’m taking time to let my self-esteem recuperate after that talk we had.”
“The time we spent together paired with the words you’d say to me convinced me that you liked me back.”
“Given how clear it was that I liked you and how my trip had been fifteen years in the making, I deserved better that night.”
“I had strong feelings for you, but we’re friends now, and I won’t be feeling that way again.”

She looked so sad, but she didn’t run, taking accountability and providing reassurance with:

“You are my type. I said the most blunt thing I could that night because I don’t like dealing with my own emotions.”
”I’m sorry for cutting that night short. I should’ve provided you the space to say your peace.”
”I’m honored to have you in my life.”
“I forget you’re a delicate flower.”

We walked through every moment where we should’ve been more gentle with ourselves.
Where we should’ve clarified what we were to each other.
Where we have room to grow and water our own gardens before we welcome someone into our souls.
Where we can only grow so much and see companionship for the two-way street that it is.
Where things went right.
Where things went wrong.

An air of forgiveness and acceptance filled my quaint little apartment. I breathed so much easier.

I then said, “I never asked for you to like me back, but I also never asked to catch feelings. It just sort of happened-”

She cut me off and said something so validating that I finally stopped feeling crazy. I finally stopped doubting the capacity for any given Stardust to return my affections.

“I do like you back. You’re my rock and you restored my faith in humanity. No one’s ever given me the emotional space and patience to grow like you have, so I do like you back.”

“You
Yeah, I always know the truth
But I can't just say it to you
Yeah, I know the truth
I knew
Yeah, I always know the truth
But I can't just say it to you
Yeah, I know the truth”

We embraced each other in the longest hug we’d ever shared, pulling closer with each passing moment underneath my ceiling fan.

“I loved you for a time, and that time has passed,” I told her. I’d finally broken what felt like a curse, a pattern of dating one person after another who sought the love I brought to the table but wasn’t ready to embrace it. I held my once favorite person in my arms, someone whose eyes once glimmered with Stardust, and I told her I didn’t love her anymore.

It was The Final Sick Hug, both for her and all lovers I’ve yet to meet. It was a hug that said “I won’t burn myself to keep someone warm again.”

l let the heartache linger and finally pass before I pulled away.

“No crying,” she said, wiping my eyes with her sleeves.

We stepped outside to decompress and walk around the block. I breathed freely. She lit a cigarette.

“Hey, next time don’t take five months to tell me something like that,” she teased.

“Hey, next time don’t hurt me so bad that it takes five months to find the words for it,” I quipped.

“Fair enough,” she smiled, blowing a puff of smoke.

“I never thought we'd see it through
I never could rely on you
And few times your face came into view
Into view
I'm not into you
Into you”

The next day, I woke up and felt something so magical. I didn’t look any different. My hair was the same and so was my waist. My skin was the same as ever: somewhat parched from lifelong eczema, hanging in there with an earnest skincare routine, and slightly blotchy from the other night’s gym session. I had all the same teeth from yesterday, yet my smile in the mirror was a touch more vibrant. Everything about me looked the same from last night, but I felt so different. I felt so proud for finding the courage to speak up for myself. I felt an unprecedented acceptance of my face and body. I felt the yearlong journey of Chrysalis finally coming to an end. I felt the cocoon cracking. I felt the universe growing silent.

I felt beautiful.

Don’t get me wrong, the feeling is great, but it’s also fucking weird. Having someone else do all the yearning and pining is…new. *shivers*

It feels especially weird since Supernova was always the most popular person everywhere we went. Every person of every gender fawned over her like she was a walking fairy tale. From what she’d shared with me before, it’s looking like I was her first experience in rejection, something that was NOT on my bingo card for 2024.

My friend said to me, “It’s crazy how the tables have turned. She was your muse for so long, now you’re hers."

Part III: Stardust

The apt song for this last part is Adele’s “My Little Love” for reasons you might not expect.

A month after that eventful, soul baring talk, I received terrible news from family. My mother’s oldest, whom I no longer associate with after leaving the nest, had made poor decisions and was down on his luck again. My mother, approaching sixty, continues to work seventy-hour weeks to support him. She wakes up, works, comes home, puts dinner on, watches TV, goes to sleep, and repeats that every day. She has no days off.

The frustration and disappointment of my mom’s circumstances were familiar but in a different way this time. They weren’t familiar in the sense that I had felt them before, but in the sense that they felt similar to the swirl of emotions I’d recently had over the resolution with Supernova.

I was suddenly in multiple places at once. My timeline had sneezed.
I was learning of Supernova’s illness for the first time.
I was in a shouting match with my mother’s oldest.
I was listening to my mother screaming “I never wanted to come here!” to her ex-husband who dragged her from Vietnam to the states.
I was four years old watching my mother slumped and defeated in a chair after her oldest had screamed at her.
I was hearing the women of my family talk of all the infamous ways the men had terrorized them.
I was handing out one Sick Hug after another, waiting hand and foot for my dating pattern to get their lives together.
I was laying in bed, and I could no longer tell how old I was, but I was in the middle of a Space Terror.

Everything blurred together in one big feeling and suddenly everything made sense.

“My little love
I see your eyes widen like an ocean
When you look at me so full of my emotions
I'm findin' it hard to be here sincerely
I know you feel lost, it's my fault completely”

In my childhood household, all manner of soft and gentle had to make way for brash and destructive: compromise for authority, fulfilling for practical, peaceful for chaotic, patience for punishment, feminine for masculine. What soothing voice my mother could layer over our home was smothered under the yelling and screaming of her oldest. What reprieve we had hid in the shadows whenever my mother’s ex-husband visited.

I had no verbiage for what I knew to be an awful way for us all to exist, so my preschool mind replaced my dreams with nightmares of galaxies speeding toward each other with faces of my mother, her oldest, and her ex-husband as to say “Hey kid, don’t sleep on this. You’re in an awful situation. Be different.” When my mother would get sick, my little footsteps would run all about our apartment to grab her whatever she needed no matter how many times she warned me to stay away, and I never cared that I had the sniffles the next morning. I knew in those moments that my little sick hug was among the few things she had left in the world her ex-husband had dealt her even if she was too proud to admit it.

“I don't recognise myself in the coldness of the daylight
So I ain't surprised you can read through all of my lies
I feel so bad to be here when I'm so guilty
I'm so far gone and you're the only one who can save me”

As I entered adulthood and distanced myself from my tumultuous family, I gravitated toward chaotic souls with dramatic circumstances whom I saw the good and purity in.

The goodness they struggled to exert reflected my mother’s forgotten dreams and ambitions.

The traumas and illnesses that pushed and pulled their capacities to give and accept love reflected the disease I viewed the behavior of my mother’s ex-husband and oldest as.

I gave them endless sick hugs in hopes of nursing them back to health, back to who they were before their circumstances hurt them so. There was a part of me that felt if I could just heal what someone else had hurt, maybe my mother could recover what she had lost about herself.

Space Terrors were my reaction to femininity being shoved down. Stardust was my way of sensing it in the world. Sick Hugs were my way of trying to save it twenty years too late. The trinity of it all was my way of coping with failing to protect my mother from the hurtful masculinity of her world. The reversal of such was my way of waking up from its cycle; The Final Sick Hug to Supernova marked the end of Stardust, and with it, the Space Terrors. No more dedicating my whole heart to people whom my whimsical affections for and romanticism of are undercover bouts of guilt from the past.

Maxine suddenly became more than just a carefree energy being steadily nurtured. The personification of being unapologetically feminine as Maxine is the hopeful girl my mother had to tuck away when her ex-husband tricked her into an unfulfilling adulthood.

Maxine is the remnants of my mother’s ambition.
Maxine is the forgiveness I owe myself as a son.
Maxine is the choice to live life as an honorable man.
Maxine is the spirit of every woman who’s ever given me hope for a fulfilling future.
Maxine is the promise to hold the stars in my palms and never settle for what doesn’t breathe life into my lungs.

In a way, I found Stardust when I stopped looking for it in other people.

I pick my mother up for dinner when I can throughout these busy days. I encourage her to talk shit and be messy about whoever she wants. I spill all the tea about my love life and she eats it up. I tease her about finally letting that one coworker take her on a date after twenty years of being avoidant.

Mostly importantly, she gets to take up all the space she hasn’t been able to all these years.

So, yeah, that’s what kept me away. I was busy giving the universe one final sick hug.

“I'm holdin' on (Barely)
Mama's got a lot to learn (It's heavy)
I'm holdin' on (Catch me)
Mama's got a lot to learn (Teach me)”

Chrysalis: a personal project.

Happy new year my darlings.

I took a few days off from work to welcome 2024. I was super excited to read, write, and eat lots of ice cream, but the transition from one year to the next had different plans for me. I spent the time sick as a dog, alone in my first apartment, and staring at my ceiling fan spin about. I couldn’t stay awake for more than a few hours and was bedridden for much of my four-day staycation from work.

It’s safe to say I had plenty of time to think about my new year’s resolutions.

So what came to mind?

At the start of 2023, I wanted to hit a couple of powerlifting milestones and move into my first apartment. Both were pretty big deals to me and I crossed the finish line for both, so what was left?

What about adulting tasks? Eh. I don’t know. I’m not psyched about scribbling down “get the Maxinemobile some new tires” and calling it a goal. I feel it belongs more on a to-do list. I wanted something more fulfilling, something that’s more of a want than a need.

Then, I saw something that managed to snap me out of my sniffly delirium and remember my intentions for 2024.

On New Year’s Day, I caught a view of myself in the mirror that wasn’t flattering in the least. I was a corpse. I had bags under my eyes from lack of quality sleep. My cheekbones were threatening to jump out from my face. I was a sickly shade of pale and missing eight pounds from my usual weight. Seriously, I was giving real dramatic frail-Victorian-child-wasting-away vibes. I remember thinking okay, I have to mask up for this over-the-counter medicine trip to Safeway because I can’t let anyone see me like this. Of course, I left my apartment complex and walked right into my neighbor. She’s super sweet and left me a care package at my door for me to enjoy while I write my will in my final days.

I wasn’t feeling very bonita.

The ordeal reminded me of a goal I’d thought of for all of December 2023, something I’d thought of making a project out of the coming year, but was nervous in wondering if I could pull it off.

I’ve been making an effort to practice more of “say yes,” so here we go.

Here’s my super-ultra-special, one and only goal for 2024:

I’m going to feel beautiful.

“I thought I’d uncover your secrets
but turns out there’s more,
you adored me before
oh, my good looking boy.”
-”Good Looking”, Suki Waterhouse

Crazy, right?

What happened in 2023 that prompted this INSANE goal? Well, a number of things.

First, thinking out loud on a road trip with my best friend helped me process how an old flame had treated my body and soul in such ugly ways.

Second, I’d gone through a bout of heartache so bad that I mentally blacked out for a week and woke up to great clarity of who I am.

Third, I spontaneously cried my eyes out during a scene from Howl’s Moving Castle. I was idly watching it, zoning out, and trying to maintain consciousness in my ghastly state of being.

Howl’s Moving Castle is a film by Studio Ghibli, a Japanese animation studio also responsible for the holy grail that is Spirited Away. It centers on Sophie, a young lady living an uneventful life as a hatter whose existence takes a wild turn when she befriends Howl, a wizard who lives in a moving castle, and is cursed by the jealous Witch of Waste who ages her rapidly from brown to grey locks overnight. In figuring out what to make of her time as a newly elderly lady, she lives in Howl’s moving castle as his housekeeper. Throughout the film, Sophie grows younger and older depending on how she feels about herself at the moment and what she does to stand up for herself.

In a comical scene, Howl frantically runs out of his bathroom and confronts Sophie after having accidentally dyed his hair from blonde to orange while shampooing, blaming her for having tidied up and leaving everything out of place.

Howl states “I give up, I see no point in living if I can’t be beautiful.”

His hair shifts from orange to black. Angry spirits begin taking over his castle, ominously shaking and rattling it.

As Sophie tries to convince Howl that he looks fine, he begins to melt into goo.

Then, the magic happens.

Sophie exclaims:

“Fine! So you think you’ve got it bad?! I’ve never once been beautiful in my entire life! I’ve had enough of this place!”

She runs out from the moving castle into an open, grassy field with heavy rain.

She begins to weep and visibly grows younger with each tear.

Old in a young body. Fed up with someone beautiful throwing a fit about being ugly. Sobbing in the rain.

I was Sophie. Sophie was me.

“Don’t kill me,
just help me run away,
from everyone,
I need a place to stay
where I can
cover up my face,
don’t cry,
I am just a freak!”
-”Freaks”, Surf Curse

I’ve always struggled with how I feel presenting myself to others.

I had severe eczema as a child. While everyone else showed up with smooth and healthy skin, I was in the corner cracked and bleeding.

I struggle with stuttering and slurred speech from years of abuse that still comes out when I’m nervous. It sounds like a little boy trying to explain why he’s crying. I’ll let you connect the dots.

I coped with trauma through binge eating. Before powerlifting, I struggled with my weight for much of my life and with finding flattering clothes for my figure.

I don’t have the best teeth. I suffered traumatic dental malpractice during my first-ever visit to the dentist. I couldn’t close my mouth for two days after. To this day, I still vividly remember the dentist giving me one of those temporary tattoo stickers that you wet and rub onto your arm to pretend to be grown up. It was a little green dinosaur, my reward for surviving what felt like bloody murder as a four-year-old. As she handed it to me, she said “Next time, no screaming, okay?”

“I have so much hurt inside me,
friend make sense of me,
friend make sense of me!”
-”A Hole In The Earth”, Daughter

And yet, I still feel so proud of myself for how far I’ve come.

And yet, I still feel so ugly.

And yet, I still love myself so much.

I remember saying to the old flame as I finally stood up for myself, “I’m going to have perfect skin and be held like I’m made of glass.”

I remember saying to my friend after the unrequited heartache, “I feel ugly and crazy,” as she wiped my tears with her palms.

I remember all the pain and glory that led up to my decision on New Year’s Day.

Now here’s the key: I’m going to feel beautiful. How I’m going to actually look will simply be a consequence of loving and nourishing myself.

“I could change up my body
and change up my face,
I could try every lipstick in every shade,
but I’d always feel the same
’cause pretty isn’t pretty enough anyways.”
-”pretty isn’t pretty”, Olivia Rodrigo

But where do I start? I’m not so sure.

It feels like going for a long drive in my own state to somewhere new; the land is kind of familiar, but I still don’t know what to expect.

There are a couple of tangible things that come to mind:

I’m making the shift from powerlifting to bodybuilding. No more bleeding from the eyes to squeeze in five more pounds on a deadlift. The focus is slow, meditative contractions of muscles so that all my joints and tendons get the proper rehab they need. Plus, we’re snatching Maxine’s waist in time for summer.

I’m deep diving into skincare more than I already have. I feel like if a guy gets a proper night cream, serum, and body wash that’s not some horrid 12-in-1 formula, he’s doing okay. Although I have those, I’m not satisfied. I want the secrets of the universe that the silky smooth pretty girls have.

I’m doubling down on my love language that is acts of service. I feel that helping a person in need is an act of beauty, and I’m going to continue, but I’m going to turn some of that impulse to help people inwards. I’m going to see what can be done to make my own life easier and give myself more room to breathe for my own hobbies and interests. A good friend pointed out that I give so much of myself to others and become hurt when it’s not reciprocated, so I need to sit in the receiving role more often.

I’m staying far away from toxicity. I have an AWFUL habit of letting toxic people into my life by convincing myself that I don’t deserve better company, and by the time I recognize that I need to leave, I’m already emotionally attached. I wish those people the best, but they make me feel ugly, so I keep my distance.

I’m going to meet more people platonically and romantically. I believe part of embracing yourself is letting more people enjoy your existence. I’m still heavily introverted and probably won’t hang out with said people super often, but nevertheless, I want to get out there more often and grant myself permission to be delightful company even if it goes nowhere.

I’m letting myself cry more. I cried the most among everyone when I was little and now I’ve reached an age where I feel safe letting Maxine cry whenever she needs to. Whether I’m watching Howl’s Moving Castle, thinking about how proud I am of my best friend, or just petting a cat, I’m letting the waterworks do as they do. It’s a cathartic act of connecting to myself that helps flush out ugly feelings even if I’m quite the ugly crier in the process. Tears aren’t just tears to me. They’re pent up bundles of frustration and self-loathing that have to exit through the soul.

I’m highlighting more of what I like about myself. I pride myself so much on taking up as little space as possible and I’ve come to realize that hyper-independence can be just as bad as higher-dependence. Being low-maintenance is not the holy grail of my being. No more of that. I’m strong as a bull. I’m a gold medalist in instigating. I’m overly helpful. I’m the ultimate hater. I’m great at spilling the tea. I can catch you with a zinger and make you snort your coffee. I love as much as I can. I’m a touchstone for many to feel safe and secure around. I get the call when you’re in trouble. I’m spoiled rotten everywhere I go. On top of all that, I make a mean mac n’ cheese. There’s so much more to me than not wanting help.

I’m falling in love with myself. My last bout of being head over heels for someone removed several masks. I’m spending less time chasing others and more time recognizing what I truly need to feel beautiful is within myself, it just needs to be let out. In other words, I’m taking Maxine on more dates.

Lastly, I’m planning to look different by January 1st, 2025. Before and after pictures, a body transformation video, the whole shebang. I’ve done it several times, this time I’m doing it not to flaunt outer beauty but inner beauty that is reflected outward.

Less “I hate this version of me.”

More “I love this version of me enough to let it finally rest.”

Same process, different purpose, but aside from bigger muscles, I also want a bigger smile.

Deep breaths.

Shaky hands.

Tearful eyes.

There’s the plan.

I’m entering an odd space.

I care so much about how I look.

I also couldn’t care less.

I’m changing.

I’m not so sure how, but I am.

Let’s enter the cocoon.

Let’s emerge a year from now.

Let’s have some fun.

Chrysalis.

“For all the air that’s in your lungs,
for all the joy that is to come,
for all the things that you’re alive to feel,
just let the pain remind you hearts can heal,
oh, how were you to know?”
-”Hate to See Your Heart Break”, Paramore

Wearing sunglasses at the gym.

Three months ago, I started randomly wearing sunglasses at the gym.

Back in 2021, a long-distance old flame took it upon herself to give me a wardrobe intervention. I was a nearly broke boy wearing ill-fitting jeans and old raggedy graphic tees with little holes in them. We made an Amazon shopping list for me full of stylish casual clothes titled “Mandatory Glow-up.” This list included a nice pair of sunglasses she insisted I purchase for my trip to her home state.

I ended up never wearing them and eventually misplaced them. I wasn’t in a rush to find them for obvious reasons.

While tidying up in preparation for moving out from my mom’s duplex, I found them after two years. The September equinox had just passed. A slow autumn over darker days was ahead of me. I was scratching my head over what I could possibly need sunglasses for.

Then, it hit me.

I thought back to a post from the LifeProTips subreddit asking “What items can I carry to make life a little sillier?”

Some of my favorite responses were:

• Clown nose kept in the glovebox to wear during traffic jams

• Business card saying “otherwise” to pull out after saying “I’ve got something here that says otherwise”

• Tiny harmonica keychain

At the time, my powerlifting journey had started giving me daily anxiety. The heavier the weight, the higher the risk of injury. A successful gym session means I have to do it all again but even heavier the next week. A failed gym session means I get a bout of body dysmorphia for a couple of days as I contemplate whether eating four to five thousand calories a day and gaining all this weight was worth it.

I needed something to break past the mental plateau. I needed a curveball to be thrown. I needed the monotony of my weekly lifts to be shaken up. I needed something.

And that something was a pair of sunglasses.

I arrived at the gym, threw back my pre-workout, warmed up, and shyly looked around at everyone else in the powerlifting room as I worked up the courage for my silly little adventure.

Then, I thought “Even if someone has a problem with it, what are they gonna do about it? What can they do about it? Absolutely nothing.”

I slipped them on and had one of the best workouts to date.

There’s honestly nothing funnier than a joke that’s only meant for you. All the anxiety of lifting was gone, from the risk of injury from heavy weight to the self-imposed standards of strength causing a daily fear of failure. I couldn’t take anything seriously with sunglasses on and I was having so much fun at the gym for the first time in a long time.

Two good friends arrived while I was on one knee, twisting a knob of my tripod to lock it into place, and angling my phone just right so I can capture my new max-effort deadlift, all while wearing sunglasses. They immediately asked, “Uh, what’s with the shades?”

I responded with “Gotta shock the body,” referring to a famous clip of Arnold Schwarzenegger explaining how you have to catch your body’s stagnation off guard with workout variations to promote muscle growth.

I deadlifted 495 for two reps, got my friends in the video, slapped “I Want It That Way” by Backstreet Boys over it, threw it onto my Instagram, and called it a successful day.

Randomly throwing on a pair of sunglasses has become a weekly puzzle prompting gym regulars to ask me what’s going on. Here are some of my fun ways to respond:

• “It’s bright outside.”

• “I can’t let you see the way you make me feel.”

• “You’ve never heard of shaded squats?”

• “I’m kind of a big deal.”

• “All the fine-ass people in here are way too distracting.”

And my absolute favorite: “I have a confession. I can’t see shit in these.”

The butterfly effect.

“In chaos theory, the butterfly effect is the sensitive dependence on initial conditions in which a small change in one state of a deterministic nonlinear system can result in large differences in a later state…the butterfly effect is derived from the metaphorical example of the details of a tornado being influenced by minor perturbations such as a distant butterfly flapping its wings several weeks earlier.”

I’ve written at length about painful upbringings, the little things we do to heal, and the peace of literally moving on.

This week, what feels like the finale of all three entries took place in the form of a conversation between mother and son that was 20 years in the making.

“Death with Dignity” by Sufjan Stevens plays in my mind when I think of this night. Feel free to pop it on while you read.

Just over a year ago, I made a stop during my break at work to try the coffee at a specialty café that had been the talk of the town. Long story short, I became a regular, I became friends with the staff, one befriended barista helped me connect with a landlord at the start of my apartment hunt, I applied for a studio, and I left the nest.

I’ve been living by myself for just about a month now and finally found the time to have my mom over for dinner. I picked her up on a quiet Friday evening and drove her to my place; she’s scared of one-way roads, so she doesn’t dare drive to me. I had a fridge full of hotpot goodies and a kitchen cabinet full of shin ramyun for us; hotpot dinners are always a communal time for my family that leaves space for conversation while we wait for the food to finish cooking.

“Spirit of my silence, I can hear you,
but I’m afraid to be near you,
and I don’t know, where to begin,
and I don’t know, where to begin.”

Upon arrival, she was immediately proud of my tidy little studio’s clean themes of black, white, and brown furniture and decor. I gave her the green light to nosily open my cabinets and judge my kitchenware. I opened the fridge to show her the result of many balanced grocery trips to ease her anxieties about me catching the illness known as “Boy Fridge.” Her smile widened with each corner she turned. Many enthused inquisitive words of surprise were said in her parental love language as I gave her a tour of my new home.

“Oh my goodness, he’s got a knife block. How much did you pay for this?!”

“Who else sleeps here? When will I meet your girlfriend? Find one so I can meet her!”

“Is this your rice cooker? It’s so cute.”

“You have a whole head of cabbage? Since when do you eat cabbage?”

“Where’d you get this dining table? You built it? You built everything?”

“Do your neighbors visit? Do you feed them?!”

“Somewhere in the desert, there’s a forest,
and an acre before us,
but I don’t know, where to begin,
but I don’t know, where to begin.”

I threw some classical music onto my Bluetooth speaker. With too much gochujang (Korean red chili paste) added to the giant hotpot of shin ramyun, veggies, and seafood, we safeguarded ourselves from a chilly autumn evening with a pleasant, spicy hotpot.

We chatted about how I’ve felt living in this quiet space. I told her I felt great, that I cook myself a hearty dinner every night and sleep like a baby after a long day. She looked at me from across the dining table with much pride as the reminiscent talk started flowing.

“You were so itty-bitty when I brought you home from the hospital,” my mom smiled, making a small measuring gesture with her hands.

“How much did I weigh? Six pounds?”

“Not even! Your aunt would say ‘there’s no telling when this one will grow’ when she’d see you in the little carriage.”

“Look at me now,” I said, having proudly kept to powerlifting for two years.

We shared a laugh before my mom continued.

“Does your aunt know you moved? She came by while you were moving. I didn’t tell her in case you didn’t want anyone knowing just yet.”

“Oh she knows. It’s totally fine for the family to know. I just didn’t want him to know,” I said, referring to her oldest who still lives with her. I never told him I was leaving the nest despite all the times we silently passed each other in the hallway of our mom’s home. “And he’s not welcome here either,” I declared.

“And I’ve lost my strength completely,
oh be near me,
tired old mare, with the wind in your hair.”

“Well, he still just wants the best for you,” she replied. The idea that he and I could reconcile remains a dream for her.

“He acts like he does because I’ve said next to nothing to him for almost four years now. He didn’t want the best for me when he was hitting me, strangling me, screaming at me, and convincing the family I was lying about everything he did to me.”

This conversation has been repeated for many years. When it reaches this point, my mom normally says something akin to “stop thinking like that” and “you two just aren’t going to see eye to eye.” This time, I spoke from the untouchable safety and confidence of my own home, and she listened with respectful silence. She didn’t interject with attempts to protect him like she normally does. She knew in this space of mine, I would speak freely and without pause.

“Amethyst and flowers on the table,
is it real or a fable?
Well I suppose a friend is a friend,
and we all know how this will end.”

“I never knew,” she said with a pained, motherly defeat in her eyes.

“How could anyone have known? I tried to tell the family for 20 years: behind closed doors with no witnesses, he’s not the same person with me. I tried to tell all of you, but he got to you all first. He does this to everyone. Every time I tried to call him out, he’d give me the silent treatment for months until I caved in and apologized for something he did. Now he’s panicking because I’ve given him the silent treatment for almost four years, so of course he’s gonna talk to you like he cares about me.”

I watched silent yet immeasurable guilt wash over her. I had taken an axe to the family closet that was my upbringing and revealed the skeleton inside, and I did it all matter-of-factly without a single plea for her acceptance or acknowledgment. I had been begging her to accept this truth for so long. Now, she had the reality of living in a lonely house with him over it. My move from her just to get away from him was no longer a bluff. We both knew this moment had been a long time coming. It would leave her deeply uncomfortable, yet she let me speak my truth, and yet I took the moment to validate her.

“Chimney swift that finds me, be my keeper,
silhouette of the cedar,
what is that song you sing for the dead?
what is that song you sing for the dead?
I see the signal searchlight strike me,
in the window, of my room,
well I got nothing to prove,
well I got nothing to prove.”

“I know it’s hard for you as a mom to watch us not get along. I just want you to ask what’s best for yourself and if that answer is letting him live with you for the next however many years. Even now, I have no resentment for anyone regarding any of this, not even him. I pay my bills, live my life, and sleep easy. Whether you believe him or me is your business, but he and I are done.”

My mom took it all in. She fought back tears. This was the first time I had ended the usual conversation by trying to validate her instead of hammering in who her oldest really was underneath all the pleasantries and bullshit. The weight of reality added to her shoulders, yet the guilt of not being able to protect her youngest lifted from them as I made it clear that I don’t blame anyone for all that’s happened.

“I forgive you mother, I can hear you,
and I long to be near you,
but every road leads to an end,
yes every road leads to an end.”

“Okay, so, I’ll come over for dinner now and then, yeah?”

“Absolutely.”

We tidied up the kitchen. I wouldn’t let her wash the dishes. The conversation became lighthearted again.

I drove her home and on her way out, she initiated the hug between us for the first time and told me to sleep well tonight. Hugging has only been in my family (and I’m talking the whole family tree) for maybe a decade. It’s a love language that my mom isn’t used to at all, but it said so much.

It was a hug that said, “I wish you were still here, I wish I could see my sons together, and I wish you left on better terms, but I’m happy you have your peace now.”

“Your apparition passes through me,
in the willows,
five red hens,
you’ll never see us again,
you’ll never see us again.”

As she opened the door to her home, waved goodbye to me, and closed the door behind her, I thought of everything that led up to this moment: the timing of the evening, the distance traveled from her home to mine, the quiet of the walk from my parking spot to the third floor, the ambience of people going about their lives traveling up to my open windows, the self I presented in this charming little space, the width of the dining table between us, the gas stove that cooked our meal so thoroughly, and every little thing that set the stage for me to present myself the way I did and in the place I did.

What if my apartment hunt had stretched past autumn, winter, and spring to drag into a hot summer that left us sweating and irritable at the dinner table?
What if money was tighter with a bigger apartment and I had to grab us some fast food instead of the slow hotpot we’ve bonded over throughout the years?
What if I lived on the first floor and we kept getting distracted by people walking by?
What if I didn’t have a coded door and my mom had spent the conversation nervous about someone breaking in?
What if I had been stressed out in a different space and couldn’t present myself the way I did?
What if I had chosen a different coffee shop?

I always tell people that I live my life with zero regrets because every decision I’ve made up to this point has made me who I am.

I wonder what little thing I’m doing now that’ll make all the difference in the future.

One thing’s for sure, I’m glad I decided against Starbucks that day.

The beautiful mundane.

I'm at work delivering medications to the next client of the morning route. A stack of prescriptions unfastened to my passenger seat rattles about with each turn I make. I steer with one hand and skip Spotify songs with the other. I’ve got the A/C on low and Gwen Stefani on blast when a text runs across my phone's notifications.

“Let me know if you wish to move forward,” from my prospective landlord. It was the first residence I had ever toured just a week ago after being connected by a friend.

Huh. Incredible luck. My first job interview resulted in an offer, and now my first apartment application results in an offer.

My home situation at the time was renting from my mother alongside a disowned older sibling I call my housemate due to his abusive exploits over 20 years.

Big steps outside of academic settings induce much anxiety for me. Growing up, I used scholarly escapes to dissociate from trauma while simultaneously living up to it, distracting myself from an abusive home life only to poorly navigate the expectations set for a second-generation Asian-American. I had no self-worth or confidence to traverse a world that wasn’t school, so I felt I had to be book-smart at the least.

Ace a capstone undergrad final on 15 minutes of sleep? Easy.

Fill out some adult-life document? NOPE.

I earned my driver’s license at 22.
I got my first job and car at 24.
Now I might have my first apartment at 26.

My thoughts ran rampant for the next few hours as I left the offer unanswered. I was now on a timer. This was my chance to leave the nest.

Should I tour more apartments? Should I consider roommates? Should I hold off and practice another month of the strictest budgeting? Should I wait till next year? Should I do another round of purging my belongings first? What if I get lonely? What if I get bored? What if a studio isn’t enough space? What if money’s too tight for a one-bedroom? What if something goes wrong and I have to move back home?

What if parking sucks?

Then, I snapped.

A grown man looked you in the eyes three years ago and expressed indifference over how suicidal he made you. Here you are having an internal debate about parking availability while he sleeps soundly down the hall from you in a home where dreams fester and die. You know damn well hope is crushed under this roof. You’ve wanted to leave for who knows how long. You’ve spent the last three years strengthening yourself inside and out. You’ve never loved yourself more.

Have you no shame? Take a chance, asshole.

In a hot-blooded rush with steam coming from my ears, I accepted the offer. The next day, I retrieved the keys, walked to a nearby bar, snagged some sub-par takeout, and ate it on the floor of my first apartment (shrimp fried rice with a can of Pepsi).

Fast-forward another three weeks, I’m all moved in and my gosh, I’ve loved every moment of this process.

I’ve loved all the little annoyances and obligations:

Angling the modem just right so my Internet doesn’t crap out.
Hauling heavy shit up and down flights of stairs.
Stumbling through requesting a cashier’s check for the security deposit.
Accidentally slicing my thigh open while cutting apart Amazon boxes and realizing I have no first-aid kit.
Flipping the A/C breaker off every day because the compressor relay is stuck.
Practicing parallel parking on crowded residential one-ways.
Getting my first parking ticket.
And all the other little gripes people put up with.

And I’ve also deeply loved the beautiful mundane:

Chopping veggies on my cutting board for a rejuvenating post-workout dinner.
Building every bit of furniture with my bare hands.
Scrubbing a greasy nook of a square bowl as hard as I can.
Spending an hour staring at my kitchen with my hands on my hips and doing the spatial mental math on the best spot to place a trash bin.
Getting blasted by cold water from a loose showerhead.
Cracking a window open to fall asleep to the white noise of the neighborhood.
Organizing my bookshelf’s mix of classic literature and dorky vampire stuff.
Introducing myself to my downstairs neighbor to apologize ahead of time for the noise I make from moving in.
Doing laundry at the end of the week with a handful of quarters.
And every single step I make on the living room carpet.

I’m in love with my home.

I’m never going back. I’ll make sure of that.

Right as my life moved from a chapter titled “Heal” to one titled “Bloom” I was coincidentally gifted a lovely bouquet of flowers from a joy of a friend and neighbor. It sits right on my desk, front and center of my home, and is the first thing I see when I open the door.

Making peace with the past brings about a restful sleep that starts and ends, but embracing the future makes every day feel like a dream.

But yes, parking does suck.

Maxine, 75.

The writing friend’s prompt for me this week: A 75-year-old widow creates a dating profile.

My prompt for her: Explain your best friend through a color. Read her beautiful, endearing response here.

Whew. This one’s gonna be tough. I only have a week’s worth of dating profile experience. I also have to write as a woman. If only I had some feminine persona that exists just enough for me to abstract a life that’s opening and reconnecting again after many decades. If only, right?

---

[Image of an older, distinguished woman confidently sitting on the steps of an old observatory on an orange and cloudy autumn evening]

Maxine

75 - Berlin, Germany

Hamburger enthusiast and working author looking for a lovely soul to laugh at my first drafts and be the muse of my poems.

My writing has recently gone stale from being too grounded on this earth and I’m looking to meet someone who makes my words float among the stars. If that’s a bit much, I also bake a great cheesecake that keeps my neighbors from calling the cops when I practice my vocal ranges. We’ve been on good terms for the last thirty-something years.

I can only bake, though. Cooking needs some work. Pretty sure that’s what landed me here. Kidding, kidding.

[Image of Maxine daintily holding a 40 oz. mug bigger than her head and filled to the brim with the darkest stout]

Two truths and a lie. Ready?

1. I can solve a Rubik’s Cube in 47 seconds.

2. I relocated to Germany in 2025 after a bout of tax evasion from selling my first novel.

3. My favorite color is green.

Gave up? I thought so. My favorite color is actually red.

KIDDING. I can’t solve a Rubik’s Cube. KIDDING AGAIN. I lied twice.

[Image of Maxine playing a grand piano with a delinquent smile while an exhausted-looking security guard approaches]

Likes: ice cream, knitting, traveling, dusting, Thursdays, when Christine says ‘And that, dear, first revealed to me that I loved you,’ in Phantom of the Opera, sunflowers, the 15-meter dash to the kitchen when the kettle starts whistling, the first leaf to fall during autumn, telling your-mom jokes to my granddaughter, and checking for new episodes of The Sopranos; despite having outlived the entire cast and production crew, I still hope for a new season.

Dislikes: bad manners and cauliflower.

[Image of Maxine laughing while holding a capybara]

Rapid-fire round but you guess the questions.

Aquarius.

Slytherin.

Strawberry.

Quality.

Cold.

Three.

Night-owl.

Espresso.

Cats.

[Image of Maxine in a formal silver dress matching her hair, cheerfully toasting red wine at dinner with friends]

Send me the purposely worst pickup line you’ve heard in the past 50 years and grab the cutest little coffee with me.

The Nun II: Rewrite.

The writing friend’s prompt for me this week: Rewrite the ending to the last movie you watched.

My prompt for her: Write a scene about someone comforting their sad friend, but they’re severely distracted by their sad friend’s awful sweater. Prepare for some giggles by her response!

Now, I have quite a dilemma. When she initially handed me this prompt, the last movie I watched was Bottoms by Emma Seligman, but I already had a ticket for a rare showing of Perfect Blue by Satoshi Kon that I knew I’d end up watching before I had time to respond to her prompt, and just yesterday I watched The Nun II by Michael Chaves!

So what do I do?

I’m of the opinion that a rewrite is a mini-spoiler due to it revealing what doesn’t happen.

Bottoms was HILARIOUS. I laughed so hard that my legs cramped. It’s as if you took a typical high school script, gave it to the writers of South Park and Grand Theft Auto V, and said “No limits. Do your thing.” With it still in theaters, I’d be sad to spoil it. Go watch it!

Perfect Blue was phenomenal. It’s a psychological thriller hailed as a must-watch of Japanese animations. A common experience for other Asian Americans my age is sitting crisscrossed on a rug to watch the family VHS of Spirited Away while you’re itty-bitty, growing up exposed to all sorts of American media, then learning about Perfect Blue once you’re emotionally ready for its dark, adult themes. Knowing absolutely nothing walking in is crucial to your viewing experience, so I’m hesitant to give you a glimpse of what actually happens and what doesn’t. Go stream it!

The Nun II waaaaaas….decent. I have zero guilt about spoiling it and it is the last movie I watched.

I’m inclined to follow my gut and not get caught up on a technicality, and I’m sure my writing friend would want me to do the same.

Spoilers ahead for both The Nun and The Nun II. This is the point of no return.

The short and sweet of The Nun series: A gothic supernatural horror centers on a demon named Valak in the 1950s. In the Dark Ages, a Satanic duke tries summoning Valak through a rift in the catacombs of his castle in Carta, Romania. Religious knights interrupt the ritual and seize the duke before sealing Valak away. Centuries later, the bombings of World War II crack open the rift and Valak appears. Sister Irene, a promising nun, banishes Valak in the first movie, but the demon lives on by possessing a man named Maurice. In the sequel, Valak now seeks an ancient relic that will grant her godly powers: the gouged eyes of St. Lucy preserved by her descendants, buried in a winery turned boarding school and monastery in Tarascon, France. A Cardinal tasks Sister Irene with investigating the matter. The main cast gets terrorized and roughed up by Valak throughout the movie, but it all builds to the climactic scene of Sister Irene, her companion Sister Debra, and Valak having a holy battle over the relic in an old wine storage room. Sister Irene and Sister Debra pray until the wine in the room becomes the blood of Christ and washes over Valak to banish her once again. Maurice is saved and happily goes his way.

Now, a rewrite:

One week after the events at Tarascon.

The sun parts a cloudy sky to shine through the window of a somber, pensive office. Documents to be addressed are neatly stacked on the table out of paranoia over tidiness. The Cardinal shifts impatiently and uncomfortably in his seat, having little capacity to take pleasure in the favorably named god rays. He nervously awaits a knock at his door, a bead of sweat running down his cheek.

Three thuds break the silence, startling yet delivering a small reprieve to the troubled mind. “Come in.” His voice stirs with urgency.

“Your Eminence,” a much younger man respectfully greets, his voice soft with a touch of wonder as he steps in, gently closing the door behind him. “The…guest has arrived.” The news is presented with curiosity.

“Show him to his quarters. Be sure he is well-nourished.”

“Of course, but…Your Eminence, he does not accept food or drink.”

“And he shall not voice it. He has taken a vow of silence. Provide what is needed and he will do the rest.” The Cardinal’s hands remain folded before his face, his elbows digging hard into the wood of the table. The young man hesitantly turns to leave, opening but closing the door after a brief pause, not taking his exit.

“If I may, Your Eminence, what is the nature of his arrival? He dons black from neck to toe and conceals a blade at his side. He barely blinks. He stares ahead as if possessed. The people whisper that his steel was consecrated.” The young man speaks in hushed tones, unsure of what he is afraid of invoking. The Cardinal gives a deep sigh, his shoulders raising and dropping.

“Sister Irene was unsuccessful in France.”

Silence befell the room once again.

“…and the man?” The young man’s hands trembled. He felt his throat would close at any second.

“Do you recall that the monastery in Carta was first a castle?”

“Yes, of where that wretched duke attempted to call upon Satan before our holy men stopped him centuries ago. What of it?”

“The man out front travels from Romania. He is a descendant of the knight that led the charge into the castle. He has vowed not to speak until evil is driven from France.”

“…How will he pray?” The young man’s blood ran cold.

“We shall pray for him.”

The clouds pass over the sun. The room darkens once again.

A dozen, please.

The delightful friend’s prompt for me this week: Write a short play about a grocery store clerk and a surprise encounter one day on shift that changed everything.

My prompt for her: Write about a moment where you felt lighter.

In my brief navigation of different formats for playwrights, I’ve decided to just wing it. This is partially due to the chicken and waffles I had for breakfast that will certainly put me to sleep if I dive into a 40-page PDF about modern vs. traditional formats.

Alrighty, here we go:

Scene

Family Greens. Portland, OR. Autumn day.

CHRISTINE, a grocery store clerk, rings up a nameless CUSTOMER and his full cart. CHRISTINE looks tired and gloomy.

CHRISTINE

ringing up at least twenty items

Would you like a bag today?

CUSTOMER

Yes, a couple, please.

CHRISTINE scans every item and sorts them into a couple of bags before CUSTOMER pays, loads them into his cart, and exits the scene. CHRISTINE gives a deep sigh and rubs at the space between her eyes. STACY, her manager, enters and pretends to check the register for something.

STACY

Hey, need a break?

CHRISTINE

I’m, like, fifteen minutes into this shift. I can’t take a break.

STACY

Yeah, but you look like you’re hurting for one. Are you okay? You’ve been…quiet.

CHRISTINE

I’m fine.

STACY

Late night?

CHRISTINE

shoulders slump

No. Just…kinda homesick.

STACY

frown, then a smirk

…Starbucks run? Venti iced chai?

CHRISTINE

hesitant, weak smile

Sure.

STACY dashes away and exits the scene. ALICE, a customer, enters and places a carton of eggs on the conveyor belt. CHRISTINE sighs through her nose and scans it without looking up.

Would you like a bag today?

ALICE

A dozen, please.

CHRISTINE begins to reach for a handful of grocery bags before her eyes go wide. She looks up and locks eyes with ALICE, breaking into a giddy smile. The upper half of the stage is illuminated revealing LITTLE CHRISTINE and LITTLE ALICE playing over a toy cash register on the upper floor.

ALICE & LITTLE ALICE

smiling

Ahem, my bags, ma’am.

CHRISTINE & LITTLE CHRISTINE

laughing

You want a dozen bags for one carton of eggs?

ALICE & LITTLE ALICE

Yeah! One for each egg!

CHRISTINE & LITTLE CHRISTINE

That’s stupid!

ALICE & LITTLE ALICE

You’re stupid!

CHRISTINE chases ALICE around the checkout line. LITTLE CHRISTINE chases LITTLE ALICE around the toy cash register.

Blackout.

End scene.

Seven delights.

This week’s prompt from a sweet soul: Record a moment of delight that finds you each day this week. At the end of the week, string them together into whatever form you like -- short story, poem, haiku, essay -- whatever suits your fancy!

My prompt for her: Write about what comes to mind when you think of “past warmth.” Her response takes you for a ride through warmly cathartic memories, contemplations, and introspections, and it gives you a glimpse into one of her writing processes. Read it here.

So, here’s a grocery list for my delightful week.

1. Breathing deeply among graves with my best friend. Every now and then, my best friend likes to visit a grave of great meaning to her a couple of cities away. It’s a whole day ordeal and I have the honor of accompanying her as an emotional support buddy. She’s the one who suggested I give Maxine a name long before I had any conception of her, so it’s safe to say I love my best friend more than I can articulate. When we arrive, she takes her time alone with the soul we drove all this way for while I pace alongside the other graves to contemplate something beyond me. She gets to say hello to someone. I get to say goodbye to something. Afterward, we chow down on Carl’s Jr.

2. Knee popping during a 405 lb. squat. I haven’t squatted 405 lbs. since February and I’ve been building back up to it amidst constant injuries at a pace I find to be painfully boring. One week you gotta squat 355 lbs., then next week you gotta squat 360 lbs., and so on and so forth. I worked my way back up to my all-time max, 405 lbs., and survived a moment of disaster. Midway through, right at the sticking point of the squat, my left knee loudly popped and I paused with 405 lbs. on my upper back. I pushed through the slight panic and completed the squat, surviving with no torn ligaments but quite a sore knee.

3. Giggling over a falling cake with my bestie. I have my best friend, and I also have my bestie. My bestie and I share the same brain cells so if something is even somewhat funny, we’re gonna turn into a pair of hyenas. I worked a half-day and made it to brunch with her at a counter-serve café known for dinner crepes. We topped it off by splitting a huge slice of strawberry cake after much expressed scorn over the inferiority of carrot cake (don’t start with me, reader). We chipped away until the slice could barely stand and dramatically tipped over. For some reason, the image of a politician quickly ducking down to avoid a bullet entered our minds, and one exchanged look on the verge of giggles followed by a “GET DOWN MR. PRESIDENT!” spiraled into uncontrollable, face-hurting laughter.

4. Calmly walking through Costco to heal from disordered eating. When I became extra invested in weightlifting, I quickly developed the disordered eating almost all gym rats attain: obsessively tracking every calorie and gram of protein to the point of food consuming you instead of the other way. I spent months planning out exactly what I’d eat for a whole week. Now, grocery shopping still stresses me out, but I’m slowly returning to a more intuitive, kind-to-yourself approach. One thing that helps is a calm walk through grocery stores with no shopping cart or intention to buy anything. I get to peruse at my leisure with no commitment to calories, gently checking out different yummy-looking items that would help me attain my goals.

5. Hugging my coworker five times in a minute. I used to share an office room with my dear coworker and I’d break up the monotony of the day by spinning around in my chair to engage in deep conversations ending with a warm hug. It became a practice to give each other hugs throughout the shift and I eventually started calling them “Jakes”, or breaks to hug my J-named coworker. She had to move office rooms, but nothing stops me from taking a Jake to walk down the hall and give her a bunch of hugs to make up for lost time in the shift. She’s extra protective of me, so I’m happy to take many Jakes at the cost of productivity.

6. Spontaneous ham and cheese croissant. I was so certain Friday’s delight would be dinner with my coworkers at a half-café-half-competitive video gaming venue. While laughing for hours with them over a steak and mimosa (I don’t drink, but Maxine got relatively shit-faced) was wonderful, the moment of delight came from the aforementioned sweet soul herself passing me a ham and cheese croissant for me to enjoy over an episode of Jujutsu Kaisen. I’m on my second bodybuilding cut and I was a little nervous about whether I had enough carbs going into Friday’s deadlift session, then I was suddenly passed an awesome pick-me-up. Another friend passed me a latte shortly after to double down on the delight and get me all wired for the gym. I get real guilty about accepting gifts, but Maxine loves being spoiled rotten with surprises.

7. Running up to double-high-five a gym buddy. I used to see my gym buddy almost every day, but he now spends most of his workouts at a gym closer to his new home. On this fine Saturday, he showed up for a workout and I stopped my pull-ups to run up and double-high-five him with the same energy as a golden retriever reuniting with their long lost human.

This week’s prompt certainly helped me be mindful of what joys occur on a day-to-day basis.