In this piece, I reflect on the ebb and flow of friendship through four distinct moments in my life. Each story resonates with a different phase of twilight, offering a candid look at how connections can shift and evolve over time.

It's the sun's final goodbye before its rebirth.

The last day I ever spent with a childhood friend I had known for six long years was a very long one that ended on her rooftop, a rare sight in apartment-crowded Singapore. It was an open space overlooking a vast patch of sky and we settled down on the mat of fake grass to spend a few minutes before I had to return home. We sat only centimetres apart but the distance felt like miles. Until this day four years later I still have no idea why, but I had felt her slipping away from me in the weeks leading up to that moment, slowly withdrawing from meetups, from phone calls, from any interaction we had together whatsoever.

The light from her phone screen glared at me as brightly as the sun, a reminder of the distance between us. Somehow it reminded me of our many years of friendship: warm and bright, lighting up my world for many happy hours. And like the sun, you only realise how far away it is until you start running towards it only for it to remain as distant as ever. The naïve pre-teen I was desperately raised as many conversation topics as I could only to receive a lukewarm response, until her parents were sending me home and I pulled out my phone too, resigning to a silent car ride with two lit screens and one downcast face.

I say now it was the last day we ever spent together for artistic reasons- we spent a few days together after that, but they were few and far between, and I always felt like it was me trying to heave up a sun that had long ago sunk into darkness. Sunlight was just too fleeting a phenomenon. Even so, the warmth of our memories remained, the dying embers locked in some secret room in my heart, buried.

The brightest phase of twilight, colourful and dynamic.

Whatever physical ability I gained during my primary school years of swimming, dancing, and for a very brief, dark time of my life, cheerleading, I quickly lost in only two years of a much more sedentary lifestyle. This, of course, meant it was the perfect time to embark on a 16 km cycling route with an athlete skilled in both netball and fencing and a health nut who found the motivation to run through a nature reserve every week. Thank heavens the other person who came along was as physically unremarkable as I was, but I was still constantly left in the dust at every turn and bend of the path by all three fellow cyclists.

At around the quarter mark, I was ready to drop. Ahead of us was a bridge to a reservoir, so before we cycled across we settled down on some rocks for my sake. We sat there for a while talking about everyday things, be it mundane teachers or torturous homework, as the aforementioned fencer edged closer to the waves, yelping when she almost fell face-first into the ocean, which we all had a hearty laugh at. In those few minutes the world was golden, on our left the vast ocean dotted with ships in the distance, on our right city skyscrapers being cast in a pinkish hue. 

Perhaps that was the closest I ever got to wearing rose-coloured glasses. I never told them, even as we got up and pedalled off into the distance, but in those moments I felt nothing could give me greater happiness than staying with them, drenched in dying sunlight forever.

A quiet, dark blue tone spreading across the sky.

A few years ago such a tranquil moment was rudely interrupted by the screeching of forty or so teenagers.

Partly to showcase our school's performing art troupes, partly to supplement the school's suffering budget, every two years we held a concert, where drama, dance and music came together in one night filled with the balloons that I suspected our music and art department head was so deeply fond of. In the hour before, our choir had rehearsed feverishly under the strict orders of our conductor, until finally, with a wave of her hand, she dismissed us for dinner and some spare time to let our voices rest.

The executive committee of our choir led us to the track for a pep talk. Little did they think it would quickly escalate to everyone, drunk with nervousness, excitement, and the entertainment of seeing others drunk, tearing across the track as one congealed mass of students singing our songs at the top of our lungs. Nonetheless, even with some of the more mature, not necessarily older, students shaking their heads in dismay, everyone joined in at some point or another to let off steam.

I had considered leaving choir to join another club, and sometimes I still do, because singing can be admittedly loud and tiresome. But deep down I knew I would never actually leave. The lights of the school buildings twinkling below us, the cool evening breeze filling up our lungs as we screeched and my heartbeat thumping along with everyone's feet that pounded on our half-melting track only reminded me even more of that.

The key, pun very intended, is to be loud and tiresome together.

The last phase, where most stars and other celestial objects can be seen.

When one lives in a metropolitan area, one quickly gets used to city lights being the only stars one will ever meet, as I did. But that night, stranded on a neighbouring island, the stars came to me quietly, invitingly, twinkling softly in a clear, but dark, sky. And so I settled down on the beach.

During the long summer days of that five day, four night camp filled with us blustering through the heat, sweat soaking through our clothes, I barely had time to pluck off the millionth ant nipping at my ankles, much less think about home. It was only during the quiet nights like the one I was currently in where the loneliness came crashing like a wave. On that beach home was a distant speck of lights I could barely make out, tantalisingly close yet far away. If the water hadn't been so freezing I might have jumped in and tried to swim home.

It was then a boy I'd barely spoken to in our group departed from the tent to join me. For a while, we said nothing, him picking up rocks to skip across the ocean and me watching the stones plop, plop, plop and sink. He asked, "Do you know how to skip stones?"

I shook my head. The next few minutes was him unsuccessfully trying to teach me how, and with the exception of one miraculous rock, many of my rocks, disappointed by the curvature of my wrist, sank in their disapproval. In resignation I sat back down, living vicariously through his rocks that bounced merrily into the distance, high-fiving him when one made it to six skips.

"So you miss home?"

Reflexively my cheeks heated up. I had mentioned my woes in passing during that morning's reflection time, not thinking much of it, but now in a quieter atmosphere the sentiment sounded quite childish, especially when admitting so to a peer.

Steeling myself, I nodded. "I guess."

He nodded back. I looked up at the stars, at the palm trees swaying methodically, back at our camp lit up with dinner fires, then at him, now scouring the shore for more suitable stones. Suddenly the city lights seemed dimmer in comparison.

"But it's not so bad," I quickly added.

The next day we awoke early to push the kayaks out to sea. The sun peered over the horizon, watching the group of grouchy teenagers lose all sentimentality in its daylight. After all, sunsets end, I thought to myself, heaving a backpack heavy with food and seawater. I looked out towards the brightening beach and caught the boy's gaze, he, who I barely knew, and I would never speak to again after that one twilight. I resisted the urge to wave. Of course, sunsets end. All things do.

But in that moment he smiled, and I noticed a speckle of stars remained, hidden in a navy-coloured corner of the sky.