2 worlds

Sitting on my bed in my room, two suitcases packed and one waiting in my new place thousands of miles from home. A designer bag containing my essentials—passport that has my past month documented in stamps and visas, flights taken as a retreat from insomnia, waking up in a different time zone each time. Geography as medicine, distance as healing.

Radio silence. No one knows anything about me right now—this strange liminal space between old life and new, between staying and leaving. Writing this is the only way to feel public in a way, although no one reads it. These words floating into digital void, the modern equivalent of messages in bottles.

I am hoping, wishing anyone would call—say something maybe so I stay here... Waiting for someone to give me a reason to unpack these suitcases, to root myself here despite everything pulling me away. But the silence stretches, making the decision for me.

But waiting for me on the other side of the world is a small place on the 15th floor overlooking Singapore, where each streetlight looks like a scattered diamond against the darkness. The promise of starting over in a place where no one knows my history, where I can write a new story on blank pages.

Speaking of which, I told my brother most of the things, and mostly about the diamonds I inherited but were taken from me. Family heirlooms that became symbols of so much more than their material worth—legacy interrupted, trust betrayed. He kept quiet, absorbing the weight of what was stolen, then we went and bought some that same evening. Not the same—never will be—but it's the gesture maybe. The attempt to replace what cannot be replaced, to restore what was lost through love if not through justice.

Crazy how people you've grown up with, even if polar opposites, turn out to be the people who get you the most. I told him about everything that's been going on, and that I talked about everything regarding my abuse to "Y." The words heavy between us, years of silence finally broken.

He stayed silent then said, "I respect that you want to keep some aspects private, but it's good you talked to him about it." Then he said, "I raised you to have high standards and I expect you to."

Never spoke of it again. Would've never guessed that the brother I never thought I would talk to would actually get it—would understand without needing detailed explanations, would offer protection without making me feel small.

He then got super protective—natural instincts I guess. The way siblings close ranks when one is threatened, even when they've been distant for years.

Back to me typing on my bed, Stanley cup beside me, too weak to grab it and even weaker to get up. Energy sapped by the emotional labor of constant decision-making, of holding two possible futures in my hands and not knowing which to choose.

Studying I have to get to but can't focus. Will probably go to my study place hoping I don't see him in his car again...

Why am I avoiding him this much though? It's crazy actually—the lengths I go to avoid accidental encounters, as if seeing him might undo all the careful distance I've constructed—letting every word I've carefuly locked in flow freely like a flood.