The Silent Witnesses to Our Graduation Chaos
The heavy velvet curtains: Deep, midnight blue and smelling faintly of crisp laundry detergent. They witnessed the three of us huddled together at 5 a.m., arguing in frantic whispers about whether the sunrise was actually happening or if we were just hallucinating the first sliver of gold.
The white linen duvet: Cool to the touch and impossibly crisp against tired skin. It witnessed the absolute, bone-deep collapse of four bodies after a day of wandering the Marine Park—a tangled pile of limbs and exhausted laughter that refused to budge for three glorious hours.
The porcelain buffet plate: Heavy, white, and radiating a gentle warmth. It witnessed our fierce, competitive pursuit of the sweetest June mangoes, piled high in a golden mountain that we all agreed was the only legitimate reason to endure a wake-up call.
The balcony railing: Cold, brushed metal that warmed quickly under the relentless summer sun. It witnessed the quiet, terrified admissions about our futures, spoken while staring at the horizon where the Pacific meets the sky, making our looming adulthood feel suddenly, mercifully small.
The bathroom mirror: Foggy with steam and speckled with erratic water drops. It witnessed the frantic, messy attempts to look effortlessly cool for the Starry Night concert, with someone always accidentally elbowing another while trying to tame a stray lock of hair.
If These Walls Could Recount Our Hours
Friendship at twenty-two is like ink diffusing through damp paper. We arrived at Farglory Hotel Hualien as frayed nerves, drawn to its British elegance. Between the game room's laughter and the salt-sprayed Pacific, we played like children to avoid the terrifying reality of graduation.
A golden slice of mango, dripping on white.
- Take the shuttle to the Marine Park early to avoid the midday heat.
- Order the local mango dessert at the buffet; it tastes like June.