Singapore Changi Airport Love Entry

surreal-fuzzy, adj.

Dressed in my sky-blue patterned flowy top, I made my journey to the Far East of Singapore — Changi Airport — to send you off your red-eye flight to Fukuoka. I was light-headed and woozy from my monthly hormonal shifts.

For dinner, you had a egg-topped East-meets-West seasoned chicken chunk atop a mound of puréed potatoes; its name “Volcano” printed on a menu with gaudy colours and poorly-toned borders. I chose the Cajun chicken burger over the carbonara pasta because I suspected it could be sub-par (the poorly-designed menu contributed to this basis); which would have been a travesty to the much needed comfort food on our last night together before we meet sixteen days later.

Feeling chilly, we got ourselves hot (non-alcoholic; because you hate alcohol) beverages from Coffee Bean at T1 and hands wrapped around our heated to-go cups, we went to the Viewing Gallery. It was a good thing we had a row of seats to ourselves, so we kissed and snuggled with easy comfort; I’ve grown less wary of PDA-ing in public. I notice that you do love it; in the lift, on the escalator, on the sky train; you do it so naturally I’m only less than slightly conscious of our surroundings. We conversed freely; I never once felt awkward or bored. Before it was too late, you walked me to the MRT, so I would not have to spend on cab.

The announcement for the last train service to Joo Koon blared over the speakers, and you rushed me to board the MRT quickly. I gave you a quick kiss and turned to go through the gantry. I boarded the MRT; I’d usually find a seat away from the person I just bade farewell to. But it was still a good four minutes before it departed, so I walked back towards a carriage that was just in front of you, and allowed us to communicate, gesturing.

I thought it was stupid gesturing for another four minutes, so I stepped out to join you, separated by the glass barrier that was waist-high.

We said some things, and then I said, “This scene could be put in a local love film. The hurried goodbye moments before the train departs for the day, and not seeing you in another sixteen days.” Well, I didn’t exactly voice them out as clearly to you then, I was too flustered. Perhaps it was the sugar-high from my hot Vanilla drink or the oxytocin-high from kissing your lips, feeling the softness of your face against mine and fully immersing myself in the moment.

I never imagined myself to be capable of having the feels to write a romantic entry like this; it is a big progress on the personal front yet it feels natural and right, in spite of a blemished past, of which you do not know about.

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