A personal essay by Tom Wang, Year 9
I had not gone out with any particular intention that day. The sky was unusually murky, streaked with thick grey clouds, and an unwelcoming breeze passed over me, causing a slight discomfort that I scarcely registered at the time. I was strolling down the streets, as one often does, without direction, absorbed in thoughts so trivial I would be embarrassed to repeat them. It was during this absent-minded wandering that I managed to disturb this unknown man by colliding into him, however so lightly that either of us could have continued without acknowledging it.
I would’ve done just that, had he have not spoken, yet he stopped me in my tracks with three simple yet strange words.
“Who are you?”
The words struck me as improper, almost indecent. Now why would a stranger I bumped into on the street ask that, out of all people? I thought curiously. A quick, furtive glance upon the man’s appearance revealed nothing extraordinary: a dark coat, plainly cut with signs of wear on the edges of the cloth, fitted cleanly with his frame. His features seemed reserved yet filled me with an uneasy air, as though the longer I looked, the more unsure I grew. His face exhibited no visible signs of aging but reflected the fully realised weight of experience few men possessed, let alone young ones.
The subtle sensation of irony slowly crept up my spine, for it almost felt that I ought to be the one inquiring the truth of his identity. At that moment I noticed that his pupils possessed an unusually dark hue, not in colour alone but in effect, holding an honest steadiness that felt both secure and chilling at the same time.
It was during this senseless, paralysing analysis regarding the man, that my eyes met his, finally snapping me out of the trance.
I quickly adjusted and blurted out the easiest reply I could muster.
“Oh, well I’m a student sir. Just the school around the block.”
He did not respond immediately. Instead, his eyes lingered upon me, steady, calm, unbearably patient. The faint tightening of his lips signalled disappointment, though I cannot describe why. His gaze pressed upon me with an almost moral gravity, as though he were not listening to my words but examining the vacancy behind them. It was not anger I sensed in him, but something far more unsettling: the silent discernment that reflected more ignorance than identity within my response.
I felt compelled to say something, to break the awkwardness that had started to settle in the thick air. For a moment, I did nothing. I just stood there, looking at this peculiar yet interesting man.
I don’t know if it was his oddly warm gaze entrancing me, or my own waves of nervousness tightening my throat, muddling the senses in my mind, but I answered again without control.
“I don’t know you at all, sir, but I felt like I needed to speak to you… I don’t know why… but I did.”
Yet his judgement did not vanish — he exhaled softly, continuing to observe me. It was as if time had come to a halt, air frozen around me, passersby on this busy pathway disappeared as my vision tunnelled, hearing becoming increasingly muffled. My confession did not ease my restless mind, as I grew aware of my appearance, posture, the irrelevant sort. Why couldn’t I answer him? Why do I even feel dissatisfied with myself, with my responses?
It was then when I spoke yet again.
“If you don’t mean my current position, then perhaps you would know me as the son of Y-, brother of J-.”
As I gave this response, my body shivered from the sudden rush of vulnerability, feeling almost childish for struggling so much in expressing myself. I just told this stranger the name of my parents and brother, names that feel so intimate, too intimate to say to him.
For a brief moment, I regretted it deeply.
The man now wore a faint, knowing smile, conveying to me a little more satisfaction but still digging for more. He finally opened his mouth, and in a steady tone, he asked me the same three words.
“Who are you?”
This time, the words seemed to stretch around me, each syllable enunciated so clearly. The words this time lingered around for longer. The words were not light at all. Just how did he want me to respond? My mind searched restlessly for answers, scanning through the identities I had so readily relied upon before. Honour student. Aspiring writer. Achiever. Son.
Yet as they surfaced, each title felt hollow. They no longer meant anything to me, sounding rehearsed and performative even within my own thoughts.
For the first time, they did not feel like me.
But if those were not the good answers, the authentic answers… then what remained?
My thoughts retreated inwards, away from the labels and expectations, away from what society had placed upon me, away from what I placed upon myself, and I saw something. An undefined thought, personal yet unfamiliar.
“I…” I began, as the words faltered upon my tongue.
For a moment, I tried to pierce the fog, to confront the imperfectly beautiful landscape it had hidden all along: me. I searched, not for accomplishments and status nor relations, but for substance.
“I believe I am honest,” I said slowly, uncertain whether I spoke of truth or aspiration. “I try to be kind to those around me… so maybe they could go through life smoother. So maybe they become a little bit happier, just a little more content. Even when it’s inconvenient.”
Each quality felt fragile as I uttered it, yet I meant every word.
“I search for truth,” I said, now growing with steady confidence, “I want to know more. I want to see more. To see beyond the stars, beyond what anyone has ever seen before.”
As I spoke, faint, distant memories stirred my mind: moments where warm kindness spread across the air, moments of deep but fulfilling regret, moments of growth I’ve almost forgotten.
My words did not feel shallow this time.
It felt lived.
