Dance on Saturn
I want to cry. I really want to cry, but I can’t. I couldn’t.
I thought I should have cried, but instead, I sighed and smiled.
That morning, the sky was clear. I felt like I was in love with myself and with the reality surrounding me.
I woke up before my alarm. There was morning coffee, and there was time — time I could make the most of.
And God was kind, too. My body was in its best condition. Even my body moved like a child who had finally learnt the dance steps by heart.
I showered, did my makeup. My skin was smooth, my makeup was perfect. One day, I would do my makeup exactly like this again.
I wore my favourite clothes, one of my beloved outfits. It was white, made of natural cotton and flowing fabric — the same kind of fabric you once saw me wearing when I danced a traditional dance.
I drove my car, filled up the tank, and went to the flower shop.
Some of the flowers were already wilting, perhaps because it was daytime. But luckily, a few of the flowers I needed were still fresh, and they were remade into a bouquet.
Yellow asters. I still didn’t know what they meant, but they were the same flowers you once gave me, weren’t they?
Then I thought that perhaps I should neutralise the atmosphere, offer sincere love and apologise at the same time. So I bought a white rose.
I drove with the bouquet beside me. I was happy. The roads were quiet, and the drivers seemed to know how to move through traffic.
Everything felt peaceful. It seemed like God had allowed the day to be so bright, with such gentle air.
I arrived at the place where I grew as an artist.
It was usually difficult to find parking in that building, but that day, it was easy. I found a special parking spot for one car, spacious and, as it turned out, close to where your performance was taking place.
And then I fell silent, looking at the asters and the white rose.
For some reason, I wanted to rearrange the flowers, making sure the bouquet looked beautiful and that the white roses were in the centre.
All that time, I prayed — a loving-kindness prayer, a prayer of love and letting go. It was the Karaniya Metta Sutta.
My love had become more than mere selfishness, because I knew that you couldn’t be held too tightly.
The audience was full. They were excited. I was excited too, even though I hadn’t eaten.
I entered the room. I still didn’t know where you were. I looked for a seat, somewhere that felt safest.
I thought the seats in the middle were reserved for VIP guests, so I moved toward the right.
The performance began.
It was funny, wonderful, and dark. But my head was filled with questions.
Where are you?
I knew that every backdrop being rolled in on the stage was the work of your hands. They were all beautiful and meaningful.
Until, halfway through the performance, I saw someone I recognised.
In the darkness.
In the far-right corner.
You.
The person moving the backdrop with the gentle hands I know so well, pulling the backdrop firmly.
I found the person I had been looking for!
Yay. My best friend.
The performance continued, and I enjoyed it even more because, somehow, my heart already felt complete.
Every now and then, I checked the bouquet I had brought, making sure the flowers were still sitting beautifully in their place.
And then, suddenly, the performance ended.
The lights came on.
You immediately ran to the front, holding hands with the crew, and bowed to the audience.
I saw you clearly.
You were right there in front of me.
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I was proud of you.
Then everyone scattered. You bowed to the audience again, but you didn’t want to look in my direction.
I waited until the audience had left.
I looked for you again.
You were there, talking to a few people.
I waited in my seat, holding the bouquet, making sure I wasn’t gripping it too tightly.
You accidentally glanced at me with a look of disgust.
I smiled at you.
Maybe you were tired.
Then you finished talking.
You walked away.
I was ready to come to you with all my happiness and all the pride I felt for you.
But you chose to keep walking, farther and farther away, across from me.
I was still too happy.
So, reassuring myself, I called your name once.
“Saturn!”
You must have heard my voice.
You know my voice. You know every tone, every feeling carried in it.
And my voice that day was pure — full of happiness, longing for you.
I was still smiling.
But your footsteps remained slow.
Still heavy.
Still moving farther and farther away from me.
I looked at your back.
Then I looked at the bouquet in my hands.
I sighed and smiled. I was a little envious of the person who could see your face over there.
Maybe you really didn’t want me there.
I stood up with a smile.
I left the bouquet where I had been sitting.
My steps were light as I slowly made my way toward the exit door, without looking back even once.
I carried my smile and your rejection with me.
Without hatred.
Without pain.
I gave you my loving-kindness through those asters.
I realised that I was the white rose among the yellow asters.
You are an artist.
You know what that means better than I do.
Maybe you never received those flowers.
But I had already given them to you.
So, I will keep walking away.
I will keep taking steps forward.
And I will keep remembering your broad back and your feet carrying you across the room, toward a place that never chose me.
