It’s a normative experience in modern times to feel a certain awkwardness about the way one was in younger years (note that it might be more correct to call it "normative" than normal). Even in positive embrace, danganronpa-posing, cosplay-roleplaying and dressing alternatively generally have the connotation of “cringe”. Artists despise their novice-level art and singers grimace at poorly-recorded sound bites — it’s a socially appropriate joke to make, with the sharp end of the knife pointing back at the creator.
Like most people, I cannot proudly say that my old self was, by any standard since the dawn of the internet, not cringy. I blasted vocaloid music during a group study at a classmate’s house, and her parents promptly made the decision to never let me step foot in their house again from the lack of seriousness. My cousins borrowed my Black Butler comics and grinned at the way it was manga. I showed some mean people my first ever animatics, thinking they were actually interested in seeing, only for them to loudly laugh at it for 5 - 10 minutes. I tried to take it with grace, tried to take the route of making fun of my past self, since it’s such a popular thing to do. Like many ex-awkward-teenagers, I just want to feel normal.
A year after my highschool graduation, a guy from middle school contacted me. We haven’t spoken for years, and among one of his first openers, he asked me whether I still draw 30 pictures per day. I fake laughing back, wondering why he seemed to not remember me in more details than that. It went on in my mind, about the way I used to exaggerate my drawings up to 30 and more. It was true that a ridiculous amount of time in my day was spent on drawing, 30 pieces was still too many. I could’ve just left it at that. Some strange, deliberate decision to lie, because it’s just what cringy teenagers do. But I don’t usually have a choice whether to divulge into something or not —especially during 20-minute Sunday sermons when the only other option to listening is dissociating.
We might collectively like to forget about the bad parts of ourselves once we have moved on from it. And to be fair, between the high score and the efforts to achieve it, who would like to remember the latter? People celebrate triumphs and usually disregard the path before them, though it is no novel observation. Yet from this, instead of making fun of yourself, I urge you to lend your old self some empathy.
===
Some nights ago I heard them. They called for me at around 1AM, lying on their mattress. Their bed was technically their entire room, with just the wide closet backed to it to separate the bed from the hallway. There were no curtains, no windows, not even a lightbulb; it was their space, but visible from the hallway, using shared amenities, with privacy hinged upon the adolescent height.
It was a calculated thing to reply to them. I was unsure how they would react, as a lot of promises between us were not kept. For example, I no longer want to voice a Vocaloid (or generally just products within that line) nor do I wish to try Kagamine Rin as my first cosplay. The most I knew about them was that they were rambunctious, mentally at least. They were not a troublemaker, but they would do the necessary gymnastics to trash anyone in a black-and-white fashion of judgement. I was up in a premature court of no nuances in morality.
Yet, I was up late too, some hours nearer to the morning than yesterday’s night. I approached it in a delirious night sensation. If they weren’t thinking straight then neither was I.
“Hello…” - they said first, while I looked away knowing they were behind me.
“Hi, any plans for tonight?”
“Well, I think you would know what I do in the dark.”
It was their favorite activity to go on MyReadingManga and cried after reading for 3 hours. Sometimes they prayed to Jesus, sometimes they opened up the note app to write down stories of suffering characters, and sometimes they tried to talk to their future self. That was as cathartic as their little life could get before the next school day started, and they had to act like they didn’t feel that bad to begin with.
We were just discussing some latest updates on MyReadingManga, as I also decided to revisit the website for nostalgia’s sake. It was funny, the discontinued ones did not have any new update, but it was unknown to me at the time because informing them was not within the working styles of the translators.
“Some did have discord servers. yes?” - I asked.
“Yeah, but I don’t know how 18-year-olds act. The cover would be blown in mere seconds.”
We knew we could fake our age, but we would rather not.We were simply too lonely to not get attached —and the more we talk, the less reliable our stories would sound like stitched together.
“Were we really that lonely?” - I jokingly inquired.
“Well, you seem to have forgotten.”
They said as their eyes looked back at me, somewhat twinkling with that obvious veil of tears. I swiftly apologized for the insensitive humour, but they just shook their head and went in for a hug.
“I was just scared that you, too, would forget about me.” - the words were barely audible with their face leaning into my chest. I took a long breath, then closed my eyes.
“No, I was afraid that you would despise me.”
“Why so?”
The conversations that followed suit were centered around what I became. More or less a disappointment, with parents still controlling my life at the ripe age of 21 and a college major I couldn't care less about. I cannot dress the way I like, my room has bland walls with messy trinkets, and I feel like nothing is mine. They didn’t understand it immediately. Of course, to their logic, most things happen in black-and-white fashion as well. The moment I turned 18, I should’ve already packed my suitcases and moved out for college. No, your family is kind of too poor for that. You haven’t known that yet.
“Well, how is drawing then, how good have you gotten?”
“For many years, I made some money with commissions. Didn’t turn ou-”
“Really?! I can’t even imagine that!”
“Well yeah but it was hard to maintain; our mom thinks it’s useless and our account followers are mostly dea-”
“YOU HAVE CONSENSUAL FOLLOWERS?”
I guess I also forgot how small the world was, too. The rotation was between school, church, and home, and I never enjoyed being in any of those places. Internet followers were the only thing that could give me a sense of value. Consensual followers was a weird way of wording it, but apparently I had a strict distinction between people who followed themself mutually and people who followed just because their art was cool enough. My value was next to nothing in my own eyes since I wasn’t cool enough for people to follow without the need for a follow-back.
It wasn’t morning, but both of us had to wake up early. In this country, it’s 6 AM. It’s enough for a normal person to get prepared and go to work. But for us it’s mostly enough to fool our body into sleeping two more 5-minute naps and bursting a false sense of energy. I signed and turned to them.
“I didn’t do anything we have promised…”
They were a bit taken aback.
“You did what I wanted to but couldn’t, though.”
Their knees rolled up, accommodating for their arms to hug around.
“I’m glad I couldn’t hear you back then, I feel like I wouldn’t have tried as hard as I did.”
“Believe me, you would have tried either way. You don’t know when to stop.”
I smiled. I saw the vision slowly coming back to my perspective of the present.
“You still draw a lot, 30 pieces per day or not.”
They looked at me again. This time with some bitterness in their mirroring smile, one hand reaching towards mine.
“... Remember me, okay? Even when the sun rises.”
I hugged them, and then I don't remember who cried but at least one of us did. They were not the type to admit to their own emotions, and that characteristic still survive with me.
We stayed up all the way until 3AM and I only secured 4 hours of sleeping and excusing myself to class 45 minutes late for part of it.