The Golden Hour

The last time I sat on my rooftop with you, it was a Saturday afternoon. Fall of 2009, before the air turned crisp and your smile turned bitter.

Thing is, I already knew what was happening, even then. Isn't it funny that in those silent moments when we think too much and say too little, when you can feel the cracks of carefully built glass walls shivering under its own pressure, you notice every. Single. Little. Detail.


The air wasn’t chilly, but the smell of leaves carried by the occasional breeze swept by. It was the golden hour, before the sun began to set, and everything glowed.

You were beautiful, then.

I watched you as I talked, my hands flying through the air in front of me in fluid gestures. My laugh imitated their swift pulls.

I was an energetic person, then.

Your hands were absently tracing the rough small pits and bumps of asphalt tiling, and your eyes were focused somewhere in the clouds behind me. They were high, feather arrows like airbrush strokes. Those were your favourite type of clouds, because they were also the hardest to draw. Even so, I knew you were listening.

You used to listen to me, then.

I spoke about the things I’d learned in class that day, words that slid easily from my mouth and floated on the breeze. I was sure you’d have learned more interesting things during your day, but I was smiling, and you must have been too, even if only your eyes showed it.

You used to smile, then.


I once told you that the golden hour was the most spectacular time of day, because when you’re standing on a rooftop and the world spreads out in front of you in neat rows of suburban houses and manicured lawns of the gated communities that make up the city’s fringe and you can almost feel the shine through your eyelids and you sigh because nothing is dull during the golden hour,

The world will sigh with you, and there’s no better feeling.


That was your last golden hour.

And, did you know? It was mine, too.

This was more about descriptions and mood than an actual story (which doesn't make much sense to me right now), and I wanted to add some texture in there too, 'cept it felt too long when I did. I think this was the result of some "free time" (read: procrastinating on Geography and Art) and pressure to write something.

The characters, if you can even call them that, are not supposed to be anyone or anything in particular. Actually, they don't even have genders. Huh. What do you guys think (about what/who they're like)? And the ending is open to interpretation (but I didn't really mean for it to turn out as depressing as it sounds).

~Yaning