Lonely Bear — Chapter One

The Story Begins with a Parting

I kept finding myself saying goodbye.

It was the first time I truly understood how close death could come, and how much could be left unfinished.

It could bring people together. They travelled from different places to gather at a funeral. And it could pull them apart again, through quarrels born from the wounds it left behind.

I kept my head lowered, rubbing the hem of my black dress between my fingers. The hall was crowded, yet everyone seemed careful to keep a little distance from one another.

There were relatives and family friends I did not recognise. This time, no one took me by the hand, led me around the room, and asked me to greet them one by one.

My parents were busy attending to the guests. My mother could not stop crying, though she kept trying to compose herself. There was something grey in everyone’s eyes. Some were comforting those who wept; others were quietly recalling stories from long ago.

I stood quietly in my own corner, afraid to move.

In front of me was a coffin covered in velvet. It frightened me.

When the farewell ceremony began, many people were crying. I did not know what I was supposed to do. I simply stood there, waiting for grief to leave a cold trail down my cheek.

But my eyes were so dry that they began to sting. The feeling I thought should come never did.

Then they lifted the velvet cloth.

Inside the glass coffin, surrounded by flowers, lay a man who seemed smaller than I remembered, his face waxen and sallow; someone impossibly different from the person in my memories, someone I could no longer recognise.

Everyone seemed a little unsteady on their feet. Swaying slightly, they formed a line and went forward, one by one, to look at him for the last time and say goodbye.

My heart began to beat faster.

I was afraid to see his face.

“Little Penguin, could you do me a favour?”“Of course!” “Could you deliver this letter to my grandpa?”“No problem. What’s his address?” “Well… he lives on a star, the brightest one in the night sky.” “Oh, I know which one you mean. I’ll make sure he gets it!” “Thank you, Little Penguin. And could you tell him that I miss him very much?” “I will. Don’t worry. I’d better be on my way!” “Have a safe journey. And thank you…”

Today,I found a star by the sea.A big, beautiful star.I felt as though it was trying to tell me something. Little Seal said it wasn’t a starfish,but something that had fallen from the sky.I carried it home as carefully as I could.It was warm, and somehow familiar. Grandpa,you must have read my letter.I’m so happy.I really am.

I sat on a wooden chair at the far end of the living room,leaning close to the electric fan as I watched it turn unhurriedly. From left to right, from right to left. The arguments in the room were broken now and then by sudden silences.All I could hear was the low hum of the fan. From left to right, from right to left. When its featureless face slowly turned towards me,I opened my mouth without thinking, just as I used to when I was little. Only this time, the delighted cry caught somewhere deep in my throat. From left to right, from right to left.

I did not know whose side to take.I only knewI could not bear to see anyone hurting. I began to read every face,to step carefully aroundthe things that could not be said,to catch the tears before they fell,and gather up the feelingsscattered across the floor. I thought that if I were careful enough,I could stitch everythingback together. But somewhere between us,grief became tangled. By the time I finally looked down,I could no longer tellwhat I was trying to mend,or how much of myselfI had sewn into every seam.

I thought I had learnedhow to be strong.But whenever the cold rainbeat down on my shoulders,I would still fall apart. I thought I had grown usedto being alone.But whenever a familiar figurefaded into the distance,I would still shed tears.

Later,in my dreams,the star slowly sankinto the deep, dark blue.

I became very ill.Through those days of feverish haze,a strange and beautiful songkept drifting up to mefrom the bottom of the sea.

I curled up beneath the covers,searching online for clinical studiesand case reports on loneliness. I needed a scientific answer,something I could show my parentsthe next time I tried to explainthat strange, unsteady sadness. Something to provethat what I was feelingwas real.

Unfortunately,they believed in none of it—not faith,not therapy,not medicine.

I kept apologizing. But they closed the doorand hung up the phone. They did not understand me. I thought,perhaps I did not understand myself either.

It’s all right.Just that I fell while runningand hurt my knee again. It’s all right.Just that I slipped into this empty practice room,where no one could find me,and cried again. It’s all right.Just that, after everyone had gone,the world forgot me again. I’m all right.I really am.

I thoughtall my wounds had long since healed,their pain numbed by ice and snow,and the nights I had spent with tearsfaded into yellowed memories. Yet under the weight of it all,they split open again. The bitter winds of winterwent on blowing all the same.

A winter without the sunlies empty and forlorn. A lighthouse without lightstands lost within the night. A bird without its songis filled with sorrow. A person without dreamsis lonelier than they seem.

Black and white framed Lonely Bear artwork

I felt so lonely today.Even my dreamswere completely blank.

The dreams holdthe distance between the life I haveand the life I still long for

In secret, I brewed a bottle of dreams,filled with bubbles lit by rainbow gleams,hot cocoa topped with marshmallows,a breeze through the wheatfields, gentle and low,the little mermaid singing her sorrow,and a caterpillar dreaming of wings to borrow. On starless nights, I sip it slow,tasting a wonder I almost know,something once dear, now strange to me,like a half-remembered melody.

In one of those dreams,someone took me to a café,made me laugh,and listenedto whatever I wanted to say. They looked much younger there,untouched by wrinkles or weariness,the way they still livedin my earliest memories. When I opened my eyes,the sky had taken back its brightness.Fallen leaves hurried past the window,and every corner of the roomhad turned grey. I closed my eyes again.

I dreamt of the little wooden horseI once loved most,the one I had lost. I used to pull it along as I ran,listening to its little wheelsbrushing against the groundwith their familiarclack, clack, clack. And yet,it was nowhere to be found. Then the dream changed.Mama was gone. I climbed onto my little wooden horseand rode away to look for her. But no matter how far I went,she was nowhere to be found.Tears kept fallingand would not stop. But thank goodness,it was only a dream.

I always felt that I had forgotten something. I could no longer rememberwhat it looked like,only that it mattered to me. Where could it be?

I went to the lost-and-found. Inside were onlya little bird’s feather,a shattered lollipop,a five-cent stamp,and a dried rose. But what I had lostwas not among them. Where could it be?

My birthday is drawing near,yet I still cannot decidewhat I would wish for this year. Perhaps what I long foris not somethinga ribboned box could hide. If I were still little,I would count down every day,invite all my friends to a partywhere we could laugh and play,count my presents one by one,blow every flame away,and eat the chocolate wishwritten sweetly on the cake. Could you give me backthe child I used to be?

The little flametrembled now and then. Somewhere beyond its light,perhaps there was stillanother dream.

I sat in the last carriageof the last train,watching the silent town outsideslowly blur away. The stars had not appeared,but the unhurried trainwas already making me sleepy. It moved gently through dream after dream.Somewhere in the haze,I thought I heard bells,and that familiar lullabybeside the fireplace.

I was ready for the journey—one small bag,and a lonely ticket for one. No one came with me.No one came to see me off.Some were still lost in the noise;others had already fallen asleep. I stepped onto the deckwithout hesitation. But the moment the boat left the harbour,my heart began to race again. Still,I did not look back.

We become ourselvesin the ways otherssee us,hear us,and make room for us.

I came aloneto this unfamiliar city.Its crossing streams of peopleand tangled intersectionsmade me lose my way. I was pushed into a stationpacked beyond movement,then rode blindlypast one stop after another. A sudden, lingering rainclouded the sky.Drops gathered on the window,slowly taking the shapeof a little bear.

Lonely Bear walking alone through long shadows

Slowly, aimlessly,
I walked on.

Sunlight flooded the street,
so bright it almost hurt.

My shadow stretched on and on,
threading through layers of other shadows—
thin, and out of place.

The days had begun to grow shorter.
People talking and laughing
quickened their steps,
heading towards their own homes.

The sun was about to set.

Still, slowly and aimlessly,
I walked on.

I wrote a letter.I did not know whom to send it to,but I slipped it into the postbox anyway. It had no stampand no address. Yet inside itwas my entire world. I did not expectanyone to read it.

The bakery in Decemberwas filled with the sweetness of creamand the soft glow of the display case. I pressed my handagainst the warm window,watching rows of little cakesbeing packed neatly into boxes. The wind still stung.I buried my nose in my scarfand watched as a stranger boughtmy favourite one. I turned away,my breath fading into the air. It began to snow.

The lights slowly faded.There was no one else in the cinema. Holding a large tub of popcorn,I sat in the middle of the last rowas a pale silver glowspread across the screen. It was the same old black-and-white film.I knew every scene and every line by heart.Yet each time the two lovers finally embraced,I found myself smiling in the dark.

Someone told memy red scarfhad begun to fade long ago. It was no longer new.It was time to replace itwith something fashionable. But when I wrapped the new one around me,I could not feelthat familiar warmth. I still preferred the scarfthat had stayed with methrough bitter wintersand nights spent alone— the one knitted by hand,stitch after stitch,and filled with love.

I used to thinkbeing part of the worldmeant keeping pace with it. But maybe there is no single wayto make sense

of what i see, what i say, what i hear,and all that remainsunseen, unspoken, unheard.

In the tall grass,I met a sunflowerthat insisted on being different. It kept its head raised.Even when the wind bentthe shrubs around it,it did not move at all. I stepped closer to speak,but as if it were sulking,it paid me no attention. Had it quarrelled with the sun?

The sea waits for hoursuntil a train appears in the distance. Cold brew spends all nightlistening to the stories inside the beans. A letter spends months crossing the oceanbefore finding its way into a dream. And a journey taken alonemay take even longerto find a rose bloomingafter the desert rain.

Then, one morning, my mailboxwas filled with replies— and sunlight.

Each one came from someoneI had never met, yet spoke of thingsI once believedonly I could understand.

Then, I realizedthere were so many Lonely Bearsin the world.

Seeing them,I thought of the little bearfrom long ago,before he knewhow far life would go. I wish I could give hima mirror facing ahead,hold him closeand softly say,“You’ll find your way.” Then take his handand run with himbeneath the brilliant sun,until our shadows become one. And when it is time to go,I’d leave him one small note: don’t forget to smileat the little bearin the mirror.

It is all right. When the wound opens again,take out your needle and thread, carefully,gently…

I will always be here,right beside you— from the first light of morninguntil the stars begin to twinkle, from the moment butterflies unfold their wingsuntil the roses wither. I will be your softest place to land,always here,always beside you.

I think I finally understandwhy the fox said to the Little Prince:“If you tame me,we shall need one another.” Taming, then,is not obedience,nor making someone ours. It is recognizing one anotheramong countless passing figuresand slowly letting someone seewhat we usually hide -- Our fear, our tenderness,the parts of us left unguarded.

The stars shineso that, one day,everyone may finda star that is their own.

Winter has come.The sky is so dark.The wind is so cold.My hands hurt from the chill.The nights pass so slowly. But it is all right. This scarfand a sky full of starsare enough.

I still feel lonely sometimes.
But I am not alone.