Sharanya Tissera
That summer, so long ago, smelled like a boozy musk. Bright mornings lasted for far too long as I sat in your arms, rambling on about anything that came to mind, and you listened quietly, without expectation. Brick walls with chipped mortar to rest our backs against, I heard your soft breath against my cheek. It wasn’t a terrible summer, your arms encircling my waist as we sat in the heat of the afternoon. I don’t quite remember the expression on your face or the conversations we had. The loud chirping of cicadas burned my ears, I was lost in thought for a while, this summer felt odd compared to the past. We were growing, despite each other, and we could not halt the process for one another. I remember your silky black hair, the top of your head burning against the palm of my hand after a game of volleyball. You sat on the steps of my porch, arms dusted with sand and tan lines peeking from under your shirt sleeves.
The trees were a brilliant green, the shade of neighbour’s brand-new bike and I felt envious that I didn’t feel as shiny or brand new. Same old me, I would whisper to myself, but you felt different, you were growing after all. Growing into someone I could hardly recognise when you knocked on my door. The sky behind you was the lightest shade of blue I had ever seen, such a serene colour, I want to name that shade after you. You apologised to me, not the kind of apology we used to share as kids when the most you ever did was force me to play for an extra hour after school. This apology, coming from trembling shoulders and clammy hands, was unlike you. I saved that image of you at the door, the cinematic clip of us staring at each other in anticipation, I saved it for a surreal documentary on my life. The swirl of that blue, right behind you, made me sick.
Your trembling hands held mine, except only the ghost of touch remained. Hold on, for dear life, keep holding. I couldn’t say the words, you were on an island of your own. Would we be reduced to the occasional text? That sad one line of happy birthday when really, I wanted to write you a novel on how I felt. A silhouette of you, coloured in that pristine blue I loved so much waits for me at the end credits of my documentary. But I’m afraid to watch the entire film, if I get to the end, you might be gone forever. So I pace myself and wait till right before the final song plays, and I turn off the screen in haste. The silhouette sits and waits, it’s only a sliver of you, but even that much I don’t want to slip away.
Hey there, I’m Sharanya Tissera, a first-year undergrad student at the University of Toronto. I am a lover of writing and editing alike and am a book columnist for end of the world! While prose and poetry are not my forte, I really enjoy exploring my creativity in new fields, even those that extend beyond writing such as visual media. While I have experience writing for online publications and expanding my own voice as an author, my true passion lies in editing and leading other writers towards the publication of their articles or books. I think there’s something really exciting in guiding an author in the process of their writing and observing the results of spectacular pieces that exhibit their individual experiences and resonate with a community. You can find me on Goodreads @sharasharapova and Instagram @sharanya.tis! If you need assistance with editing a writing piece whether that ranges from a short prose piece to a novel in progress, reach out to me on Linkedin @Sharanya Tissera.