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Last week we were queuing at Din Tai Fung for lunch and I was jittery, sick in the stomach knowing I’ll collect THE RESULTS in about 2 hours and fearing that I won’t be able to muster enough happiness to be happy for him later, whom we all just knew would do incredibly well (he did), in the event that my results turn out tragic. Idle banter.

“Your phone cover sucks.”
“It so does not, but okay.”
“It’s falling apart.”
“Okay.”
“The pink glitter bits are flaking off.”
“Okay.”
“So gross.”
“Yeah I get it.”

Just one of the 817383728382 criticisms I deal with from him on a daily basis. (Your makeup sucks! I don’t like your outfit today. Why are you eating that Reese, do you love it that much you want it to stay in your thighs forever. I’d rate you a 3/10, I guess. Seriously, your makeup sucks. Have you considered going for classes?) No big deal. Was cool.

After we got shown to our table, he laboriously began unpacking the contents of his bag. Wallet, cheap plastic Nokia for camp, and… A gorgeous Cath Kidston iPhone cover in its box. Which he then proceeded to THROW in my direction. Like it didn’t mean a thing. Like he didn’t bother paying attention even when I was just mindlessly rambling when I said I like this this this and that and everything else we saw, or talked about things so random even I don’t bother with remembering what I said. Like he didn’t sweetly think of me when he saw the cover being sold on the streets.

Look of disbelief.
“What? You said you liked the brand.”
“Yeah that was like LAST YEAR or something how does one remember things like that?”
“Because I listen when you talk.”

Sometimes when I’m trying ( keyword: TRYING) to be pensive and deep and reflect on my life, I wonder what I must have done right to have met you. You, and Sarah and Kaede and the rest of them. Angels, and truly the light of my life, at a very, very dark point of it. I have been so fortunate, and unbelievably blessed to have met you people. Finally, people who accept me for who I am, quirks and all, and people whom I can totally connect with on a whole new unprecedented level. Not that I couldn’t connect with my existing friends, but we were just… BAM. Perfection. Each of us so different from “the rest”, too deeply entrenched in our overdramatic world of fluff and ostentatious language. And when you guys were unfailingly just THERE for me during my ordeal, that just sealed it. I love you guys very, very, very much, but this post is for you.

I am incredibly thankful for everything you’ve done for me. When I got my heart ripped out and trampled on, you watched me kill myself further. You let me replay the painful bits in my head, you let me act it out physically. You knew I had to let it all out. And then you’ll silently watch me behave like a psychotic bitch till the episode, out of my many, many painful crying episodes was over, before you’d just hold me while I was a complete mess, drooling and bawling and leaving the chest area of your tshirt soaking wet with mucus and tears, and all you did was hold me tighter and tell me you’re right there for me.

When you couldn’t be there for me physically you tried to make up for it spiritually. Letters, loads of them. Handwritten and peppered with whatever pretentious Latin quote of the moment you were obsessed with. Numbered and dated and even the time you wrote it was recorded. But most importantly the letters reminded me that I’m still loved. That despite my state of fugliness without cosmetic aid, despite my lack of intellect, despite my retarded reflexes at understanding whatever you were trying to teach me from the time you sacrificed from your own study time, despite me clearly draining your time and energy because it must have been absolutely depressing to be hanging around this sad person all the time, you’ll always be there for me. The hugeass card you made, a compilation of all my most hideous pictures and expressions. So that I’ll learn to laugh at myself. On the back you wrote and proclaimed that you’d whore yourself out for me. I have no doubt that you will.

I am so happy with my results. 85/90 rank points omfg!! And needless to say, I have you to thank for it. You opened not just your door to me when I needed solace and a place to cry, or someone to teach me whatever work I didn’t understand - basically everything - but also your heart, when you let me in at 6am, disheveled from catching the first bus to your place. I hadn’t slept the entire night, kept awake by those horrid violent thoughts of betrayal, and the fear that I’ll never be able to finish studying. Groggily, you let me in and cuddled me till I fell asleep. When we woke up you taught me whatever you could, until it was dinner and you cooked for me while I was still numb. Little, domestic things that made me feel like someone still cared. Like I belong somewhere.

I live there now.

It took a lot of time, so much that my memory has become hazy, but gradually and surely, the pieces began growing back together. And alongside the now-mended fissures and fractures, are bits of you, inextricably woven and healing over the once gaping wounds, the cement to the pieces. Thank you for fixing me.

I can’t put a finger on what we are, definitely more than friends, yet the very notion of us dating or anything remotely romantic is puke inducing. That day at the gym when you listed me as your emergency contact and we were both deeply troubled by the ‘relationship to member’ field. Angel? Would be hilarious. If you got a cardiac arrest on the treadmill and they called me it’ll be like your angel has indeed arrived. But then we lamely decided on ‘guardian’. So ridiculous. But you know what? I’m glad we finally settled on that line. That term.

“You’re my person.”

I love you Remus Ang.