Written on Thursday night, 10th July.


Seven years.

That's how long I've been away from US. That's the last time I stayed there.

Has it only been seven years? Seven years since I last set foot on Malaysian soil, certain that I'd never leave again?

84 months.

Approximately 2,555 days.

About 61, 320 hours.

Which is about 3,679,200 seconds.

Yep, I used a calculator.

When I was nine, I was always fantasizing and moaning about how I wished I could go back to US, continue the life I was leading. But at that time, I didn't really realize how big this really was.

I had just swapped sets of friends twice in six months.

In my eight year old mind, this wasn't real. I was just biding my time until I came back to US in university. Or something.

And then I grew older, and I forgot about US. It was time to settle down for Malaysia.

But in a sense...Malaysia never really felt like home. Sure. I had a house, a school, a sport I truly loved.

But deep down, way, way, way, deep down, I always sensed- perhaps I didn't belong here?

Now that it's a week before I step onto the plane that will carry me away from my tanah air, I feel like I'm truly going home, back to where I belong. Maybe it's because I spent my first who knows how many years growing up in California, where I'm going to move to. Who knows? Perhaps I was destined to be an American after all.

As I type this, I am no longer the quiet eight year old who walked away from her primary school friends, knowing somehow that she will come back.

I am no longer an eight year old who depends on her parents for every single little thing.

I am no longer the girl who didn't know who her friends were.

I am a teenager, who knows the implications of her departure, and who knows whom and what she's leaving behind.

I am a teenager who has experienced life's bitter lessons.

I have found new friends, lost old friends, and come out for the better of it.

Starting a new life won't be hard.

It'll be leaving the old one behind and trying to keep the two together that will be difficult.


As I type this, my heart feels empty, detached. I can't cry. Not yet. The tears haven't come.

But I know they're nearby, waiting to spill.

I think about seeing my classmates, the girls that taught me so much, for the last time tomorrow, and I can feel the first crack in my heart.

I think about Saturday, where my tennis friends will be one of the last faces I'll see before the weekend ends. The second crack spreads.

I think about Sunday, my last Sunday, I think about my youth, the people who took me in, and the third crack reaches further in.

I think about my music friends, who managed to make music something enjoyable, who managed to bring music alive, and the fourth crack reaches around back.

I think about my bowling comrades and how we supported each other through numerous competitions, of our friendly rivalry, of how close we were off the lanes. The fifth crack pierces my heart.

And then...I think about the farewell. Never again will I look at Indian food without threatening to laugh, never again will I feel the sand beneath my feet without remembering that night at the beach, where magic just seemed to flow. Never again will I listen to 'Jenny' by The Click Five without the memories.

The cracks threaten to shatter my heart, and the tears well up.

I think about the tennis outing, and my heart feels like its edges are slowly falling apart.

I wipe away the tear before it falls.

I remember the camaraderie between the prefects, and I know that never again will I look at a green skirt or tie without repressing the memories.

I wipe away the second tear.

I reflect on my tennis lessons, of how we seem to bond off and on the court, and how we laugh so hard and keep the flames of friendship alive, even though we got hit by flying tennis balls, and how we broke every single cone left for us to break.

And my heart slowly shifts precariously, shifting towards destruction.

I remember various bowling tournaments where my friends kept me going, where I kept them going, where we all bonded together to keep from falling.

The tears well up again.

I remember dark times in life, and how music brought me through, and how the people who brought me through kept the music alive.

I remember my youth, who managed to make each day a blessing in their various ways, and who never failed to make me feel like I was accepted in any way.

The tears cloud my vision, and I impatiently swipe them away.

And then I think about leaving these awesome people behind, I think about saying goodbye, really goodbye, and the tears well up, and before I can help it, the first tear slides down my cheek.

And I know I'm crying, not only for my friends, but for the piece of my soul that has already been tied down here.

The second tear falls, and I think I can dimly hear the faint sound of the walls collapsing around my heart and the clink of the pieces falling against each other.

In seven years, these people have brought me through life itself, taught me lessons amidst the pain. They taught me how to love, how to forgive, how to smile, how to heal.

But one thing that they didn't teach me was how to say goodbye.
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