liyana,

Your marathon clippings all still over the table. I have not got around to putting it away in the folders like you wanted me to. You, who would not stand to tolerate when things are not in place. Everything has to be sorted into its category. Read and classified accordingly. At times when convenient disposed.

And I have a peculiar habit of leaving things behind while it was still unfinished. Such as books turned upside down parted in the middle of the pages lying on the floor. I have a knack of leaving things hanging while I savour my sweet time in finishing it.

You thought it might be my lack of commitment. I agreed.

Left to my own device, I would gladly sit on my bum and expected the fruit to fall from the tree.

Commitment is what you thrived for. Despite your sunny disposition, you took things that matter to your life seriously. Very methodical and dedicated once you have put your mind into it. It was your love for the details. Every work of art comprises thousands of details mashed around in a perfect manner.

Hence perfection.

But what I found beautiful was behind this structured facade of detail-loving mind lies a very keen and sensitive soul.

I remembered you participated in one of the marathons held very early in the morning. It was one that you had to partake due to corporate sponsorship I think. You have always enjoyed marathons; I know what it meant to you, running around putting away your excess energy for good. But this one you described it a little differently.

You gave me a walk through. You described the mass energy of crowd gathering in the early hours before the running starts. And as it started, you took a mental picture of the quiet solemn towering buildings that were still asleep, the newspaper vans that made their routine morning drops at the old weathered-looking 2-storey building housing family-owned grocery stores, the bread man on the motorcycle with an early start by the side of the road giving way to the stampede. And as it gets a little brighter, you saw sunrise reflected from the distorted coloured glass panel of the high-rise, the streets get a little busier with modest car honking in the distance, people of different race and colours stood behind the sideline to watch and cheer. There were more but I could not remember much.

You painted the town with life as you ran through it. I could feel it with every breath that you inhaled; you gave name to every colour and movements, and capture every little moment with your innate senses.

I found it breathtaking. I wanted to kiss you hard.

This thing you have. This thing in you.

It has consumed and suppressed me.

Do you not remember liyana? It was the exact same words you said to me when we first met.

chairil