After a minor dispute soured the air between a friend and me, thoughts of her came flooding back to me.
Our high school housed a modest zoo, home to a white rabbit that always huddled in a corner. Starting in our third year, in every break, we would always be there, watching the rabbit. Amidst the surrounding cacophony of classmates’ shouts, teachers’ reprimands, and distant thuds of basketballs, we remained silent.
But in that silence, there was communication.
We had known each other since childhood, attending the same elementary and then high school. We used to talk about everything. At school, we’d share sandwiches and lemon tea. During classes, we’d pass notes through our classmates, who eventually grew weary of playing our messengers. Lunch breaks were spent in a small playground near our school; we’d sit atop the slide, encased in plastic walls, in a tiny kingdom woven from our laughter and intimacy. In our realm, the citizens were always joyous.
I never quite grasped what changed during that summer holiday in our second year. She had gone to the U.S. for a study trip. Upon her return, something subtle shifted between us. At first, it was just a minor chink, like a chip on the edge of a ceramic plate. One needed to be careful while washing it to avoid cuts — speak thoughtfully, choose words carefully, and conflicts could be sidestepped. That’s how it began.
But eventually, that chip grew into a gaping void. Arguments erupted once or twice a week, then three, four, five days… Cold wars became the norm. It felt like a fog had formed between us, distorting every sound and ray of light. What I expressed never seemed to be what she received. The more we tried to understand each other, the more we misunderstood. By spring of our third year, we could no longer talk.
You might think this was just another tale of puppy love gone sour. But I firmly believe that we still cared for each other, or we cared for each other even more – because so much was left unsaid. It’s like when that massive ship blocked the Suez Canal recently, leaving hundreds of vessels waiting at the mouth. That was us, emotions jammed in our throats. The only difference was, while the canal eventually reopened, the channel between us remained forever closed.
I tried to break through the impasse. In the dead of night, when the world lay hushed and heavy, I’d sneak a beer from my father’s fridge and write to her, hoping the alcohol would loosen the bonds of my restraint. Those bonds felt especially tight back then. The less we communicated, the more each word I wrote carried the weight of how she might interpret it. “The weight of how she might interpret it.” But did “weight” imply reluctance? Would she think I was blaming her? Was “interpret” too cold, too academic? So, I’d erase and rewrite:
The weight of how she might interpret it.
Inevitably wondering how she might read my feelings.
Inevitably wondering how she might imagine what I feel.
Inevitably contemplating how she might imagine what I feel.
That was the routine. Erase and rewrite. A homework book paper can only withstand eight erasings before it tears apart — a lesson learned the hard way.
Eventually, I tossed the homework book paper into the wastebasket.
Then one day, she asked to meet during break at the small zoo – a place no one would go, except the heartbroken, those contemplating farewells or nursing grudges.
I went. She was already there.
“Look!” she whispered, as if afraid to disturb someone. “There’s a rabbit.”
I wanted to say that the rabbit had always been there. But had it, really? The more I thought, the less certain I became. So, I remained silent.
That moment of silence stretched into an eternal quiet between us, and “There’s a rabbit” became our final exchange of words.
She crouched in front of the rabbit, her pleated skirt resting on her thighs, her right ring finger gently pushing a strand of hair behind her ear. Her round eyes were fixed on the rabbit, as if it held an entire unknown world. The rabbit, through its ruby-red eyes, seemed to communicate with her. Suddenly, it turned to me, its nostrils twitching.
In that instant, I felt a long-lost connection. A signal was passing through the rabbit between her and me, like a telephone wire transforming the solitary act of speaking into a clear conversation. But while a phone call needs language, watching the rabbit required no words at all.
That day, things remained unsaid. The bell rang, and we returned to our classes, knowing we’d meet again at the same time and place tomorrow. From then on, every break in our high school life was spent watching the rabbit. With time, my understanding of her deepened. I could sense her daily emotional shifts – from the speed at which she crouched down, the depth of her breaths, the slight curl or droop of her lips while watching the rabbit, to the look in her eyes when it drew near. I remember a day with a fine drizzle. Sensing something from the reflection in the rabbit’s eyes, and feeling the warmth of her skin through the mist, I gently took her hand. At that touch, her tears burst forth, cascading down as she wept into my shoulder. Only later did I learn that her father had passed away that day.
We were closer to each other than anyone else.
Then came our final years.
Everything has its end. We both knew that after graduation, there would be no more rabbit to watch. Bereft of our medium of communication, we could only helplessly drift apart. It was an irretrievable loss. Meeting at the city zoo or even living together with a rabbit were not solutions. Besides, planning such things would require words, and we hadn’t spoken in years.
On graduation day, there was no break. I lingered in the zoo after the ceremony, idly kicking stones, waiting for her. The white rabbit slept, and she never came. It wasn’t break time. I knew that, but I waited anyway. It was like in Waiting for Godot – waiting need not always lead to arrival. What’s wrong with wishful thinking?
“So, take care,” I thought to myself.
“Yes, take care,” she would have said in her heart.
I waited until the janitor chased me out. Since then, I have never returned to my alma mater, and never saw her again.