I don't remember when we first met.

In my memories, it’s as if one moment I didn't know you,

and the next, I just did. There is no solid line to divide

between before and after. You are simply endless–

There's a saying about how the darkest hour

is just before the dawn. But I wonder, what about

the places in the world where the sun stays up

for six months and hides for the other half a year?

I imagine that in these places, where there is no solid line to divide

between before and after, the darkest hour seems endless–

an eternity of waiting for sun to show, similar to how we waited

in March for the masks to go and the vaccine to come.

While waiting, we called every day during distanced

learning lunch hours. Do you remember how I went from

knowing you, to knowing you, to knowing you? How through a

square screen, we compared our lives and learned of the endless–

list of things we had in common? Two lifelong dancing eagles, training

under the same teachers: Lauren, Yenny, Rodocker, Lim, and now Cherry.

Do you remember our obsession over Harry Potter? How

through a shared screen, I saw you smile shyly at the endless–

puppet performance playlist? I remember telling you how much

I value loyalty in friendship, almost as much as I value bravery,

and I remember the fear in your wide eyes as you told me,

months later, through a square screen still, that you’d lied to me.

That you’d only pretended you were brave, but oh, how afraid

you were when you confessed to carefully concealing

your cunning personality. And I laughed it off, saying, “You

look better in Green, anyway,” but I didn’t trust you enough,

yet, to tell you the truth, that this was another thing we had

in common. I wonder if now, years later, you can tell that 

I’ve lied for longer. That I’m still lying. I wonder if 

your snake heart can recognize one of your own.

I wonder if you know, but if you don’t, I wonder

how much you would mind how much

I’ve lied. I’ve lied so many times, to you, to myself, endless–

–ly I’ve lied and I’ve lied and I’ve lied, and

when was the first time we lied together in the same bed?

When did our friendship shift from forced and fearful to

casual and comfortable? Uniforms to pajamas? Fancy restaurants

to Mcdonalds? Two beds to one? Where is the line that divides

between before and after we lied back on my soft bed, gazing at each other

instead of the movie projected on my bedroom ceiling, Harry Potter, of course,

while we whispered our wonderings of when

we first met, because you couldn’t remember either?

And finally, I trusted you enough to tell you

the truth about the life I lived before you.

You took a tight hold of my hand as I told you about the friends

that left me, the boyfriend that broke up with me, and the shame 

I felt at feeling more broken over a breakup than I felt over

my grandmother’s death. How I felt twisted and selfish and

how I’d wondered if I truly loved a mere boy

more than I loved my own Nena.

And after you asked, I admitted that I hadn’t loved him,

that I was thankful we hadn’t called it what it wasn’t.

Because being with that boy was 

obsessive, new, thrilling, fun. So are drugs.

But my Nena? Her laughter, her hugs, her love was strong and endless–

We had a special way of saying we loved one another, to the moon and back.

I told you, with tears in my eyes, that I’d learned that people die twice.

The second time is when they stop breathing, and their heart stops beating.

But the first is when they’re no longer the person you remember,

when Nena’s laughter and hugs and love stopped being strong and endless–

when my life stopped being easy. When I stopped

being a child and suddenly became a teen,

I met you before my darkest hour. I didn't know you, know you,

or know you, until after. I almost didn’t know you at all, because

I stopped being a person I could love. Could live with.

I wanted to stop breathing, I wanted the endless–

to end.

You weren't there when I made the call for help. You weren't

the boy that lured me away from the balcony edge

with lies, like a siren, when I thought it was my only way out,

he lied and he lied and he lied. I'm so thankful he did, thankful that

we first met when my darkest hour had passed, thankful that I learned

to love myself again, so I could love you in the way you deserve, endless–

–ly. You're the first person I "laurv"-ed, and I don’t remember when we

first said we loved each other, but I know that the first time I meant it,

the first time I called it what it was, the first time it was less

of a joke and more honest, vulnerable, was when we lied on my bed

after I’d told you my truth. I was hyper-aware of your body next to mine,

how you softly brushed your arm against mine, because you’ve always

been hesitant about physical touch. So have I. But suddenly, you were

so close, your head on my shoulder, my arm around yours, our sides

pressed together. That was the first time I stared too long into your eyes,

suddenly remembering your old glasses, the ones you wore when we first met,

the first time I stared too long at your lips and wondered about how you

kiss, and I thought, I wouldn't regret my first kiss if it was with you.

There was a time when I wanted to

love you more than the way friends do.

I think there was a time when you did too.

But like ships passing, we missed each other. You and I

both began breaking the boundaries of love in our freshman year,

but you came two years later, falling in

love just when I’d fought out of it.

Sometimes I wonder about what might've been, but mostly, 

I'm glad we have what we do. Glad we didn't ruin it.

I've known you for four years, loved you for three,

but if the dark can bleed into the dawn, endless–

maybe I've loved you for forever, in all those who came before you,

my friends, my Nena, my brother, until I could finally meet you.

Because like how an eclipse is a mix of the moon and sun, the dark

and the dawn, you are a mix of everything that came before you, not blocking

out completely the sun of my past, but blocking some of the burn. You are

my former friends’ loyalty, my Nena’s laughter, my brother’s innocence,

you are everything. You are endless–

Somehow, I learned from someone that you're afraid you will never

be as good as me, at school, at dance, at everything.

But like in the MCU, our latest shared obsession, you’re the Spider to my Iron,

the Peter to my Tony, and “I want you to be better.”

You have to be better.

(You already are.)

Your first month as a freshman has been hard. You've begun to lose faith,

but the day you lose hope, lose sight of the sun, I will be there to remind you

the lesson you taught me time and time again: the darkest hour is not as endless–

as it may seem. The dawn is merely seconds away. And if nothing else, if all else fails,

you can trust in my love, endless–

the way you can trust

that every night, the darkest hour

will begin, but every morning,

the sun will rise again.