i just finished watching aftersun on a big screen because i wanted to feel everything in a full big screen. the sweetness, the cracks, the kind of sadness that doesn’t rush to be seen. it started off easy and i thought, oh, i’ll be fine. i can handle this. i was wrong. some people told me not to watch it alone and if i do, should be ready for everything. i should’ve listened because aftersun didn’t just break me, it quietly wrecked me. it tore me into a thousand pieces i could still recognize. each piece reflected me and my dad.
after the movie ended, i sat there in silence and tears just went down my face and they wouldn’t stop. i had already been crying during the movie but i just couldn’t hold it anymore. i tried my best, but i couldn’t. maybe that was the kid me and the current adult me feeling everything all at once. i cried so much that a kind stranger came up to me and tried to calm me down, as if they understood what i felt. the sadness i’ve been carrying for so long.
i saw so much of us in sophie and calum. i could feel that i am sophie but also i’m slowly turning into calum. i was once the kid, and he was the adult carrying weights no one else could see. aftersun reminded me of this one day, long ago, when my dad took me to the local mall to play at the amusement area on the top floor. it was a big deal because he hated malls. mom said he hated crowds, but he still went for me. i was maybe seven or eight. i remember playing everything i could. it was fun. it was warm. i was happy, and i really hope he was too. after that, he took me to a toy store and let me pick one toy, then we watched doraemon & nobita and the sun king at the nearby theater. that movie made me want to draw comics (which now i don't want to ever cause it reminded me of this day). it was the only time he ever took me out to play and spend the whole day, just the two of us. after that day, he never did again. when i asked him to, he just refused. mom told me gently that he didn’t want to.
sometimes he’d still take me for rides around our housing complex on his red vespa. when i was smaller, i’d stand in front, holding onto the handle while the wind hit my face. it was freedom. it was joy. it was me trusting that i was safe, because he was the one navigating the road. maybe that’s why i love motorcycle rides now. sometimes, when i’m sad or bored, i’ll order a random gojek and just ride from point to point, nowhere in particular, just to feel that same wind again. it’s my way of remembering him. some might think it’s strange or silly, but for me, it’s peace. like that one scene in aftersun where sophie stands under the strobing lights, searching for her father, trying to hold onto the light before it disappears again.
after that one perfect day, things changed. the vespa rides stopped. he stopped taking me anywhere. little by little, the distance grew. and just like that old 3rd floor arcade that got renovated and the theater that got torn down, something in us started to fade. i thought maybe he didn’t like me. i was just a kid who didn’t know better. i got angry at him for pulling away. now, as an adult, i find myself angry at me instead. why didn’t i ask why? why didn’t i try to understand? maybe he was just tired. maybe life was heavier than he let on. like that moment when little sophie saw her dad dancing and knew, deep down, that something inevitable was waiting to happen.
my dad used to blast music on weekends, so loud the walls would hum. one of his favorites was Queen’s Under Pressure. i never got it back then. i thought it was old, too grown up for my taste. then one day i discovered Ice Ice Baby by Vanilla Ice and loved it, not knowing it sampled Under Pressure. the irony hit me years later. my dad was Under Pressure and i’m Ice Ice Baby. two different songs, same rhythm. different eras, same heartbeat. in the end, i’ll always be him.
aftersun was like someone pressing a mirror to my chest, forcing me to see what i’ve been avoiding. i realized i’ve been living inside that strobe light scene for years, stuck in the in-between. the child who still searches for his father in the dark and the adult who’s starting to look a lot like him. everything he is lives in me now. i stopped fighting it. i just let it exist. the good, the flawed, the quiet grief.
sometimes i still wish i could go back and ask the questions i never did. but that kid didn’t know how. no one ever taught him how to reach for an adult already halfway gone. now all i can do is carry what’s left, a small fire that doesn’t go out. it’s both warmth and weight.
there’s one part in the movie i can’t shake off. when The Tide Is High plays right after sophie sings Losing My Religion. it felt like a reminder. even when the tide is high, hold on. even when you’re in the spotlight, losing your faith, hold on anyway. find the good in it. find peace with it. live with the weight. like when sophie says,
"i don’t know. don’t you ever just feel like you’ve done a whole amazing day, and then you come home and feel like your bones don’t work, they’re just tired, and everything is tired. like you’re sinking."
and maybe that’s me now. looking back at that memory, realizing how unaware we were. how much weight he carried, how much i didn’t understand. i cry because i still share his sky. i cry because i never really said i love you enough. i cry because now i know how heavy his smile was, how quiet his storms were. and until the last picture fades, i’m still here, under the same sky, waiting.
i don’t say this much, but i love you, dad. i really hope you know it.
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