“But I want to be as happy as they are, and as carefree as a freaking unicorn. One day… probably one day.”
Those words, though spoken ten years ago, remain engraved in my mind like a broken record. Happy as a unicorn—if only it were that simple. I remember it like it was yesterday when she described how unicorns were her kind of angels.
“They say angels take the form of humans, but I hate that. Horses are better, don’t you think? But here’s the conflict—I hate horses too. I hate animals. But there are certain things that could make them a little better: mythical features, a touch of magic, the idea of them bringing faith and joy into the world.”
Unicorns, as described by Lady Unicorn herself. She went on to defend her fascination:
“It’s their effervescent glow, their majestic horns that could pierce even the thickest of shields. And there’s this saying I love—that unicorns are so magical they even poop rainbows.”
Since then, I’ve always thought her beliefs about unicorns were absurd. We had our fair share of disagreements through the years, but I was never one to hold grudges—especially not against someone like Alice. I had my own obsessions anyway. Star Wars occupied my time and interest, while Alice lived in her whimsical world of unicorns and mythical creatures.
Alice was never like any other girl in our class. She was always in her washed-out overalls, her red Converse sneakers worn but full of character. Her auburn curls framed her face, half-tied, tumbling over her shoulders, and her brown eyes—sharp behind her glasses—had a way of looking right through you. She carried herself differently. She didn’t care what people thought of her, and that made her fascinating.
Unlike the rest of the girls, she didn’t run around chasing boys or hosting tea parties with Barbie dolls. Her world revolved around her red notebook and her favorite unicorn plush toy. She might have seemed distant, but she was generous with her smiles—especially toward me. The way Alice cherished her love for unicorns was how I cherished her smile.
We came from different worlds, yet we connected instantly—like rainbows and butterflies. That’s how it felt. Alice was my unicorn. She stood out, bright and strange in all the best ways.
Years passed. Things changed. And now, as I drive down the winding road of Jalan Terengganu through rows of tall pine trees, I know that what I said—or didn’t say—was wrong. I know I should have made things right.
After a few more turns, there it was—the house with the black picket fence. The house that held so many memories. The last place I saw her.
The old house looked somber now, its walls entangled with roots and vines as if the trees had swallowed it whole. It wasn’t how I remembered it. Back then, when we still lived here, the gates were never locked. Relatives would come and go freely; every weekend was filled with chatter, laughter, and food. I was never lonely there. Alice lived nearby, so naturally, our home became her second home too.
I came back hoping to find traces of her—to understand why she stopped talking to me, why it felt like she had completely forgotten me after our last meeting. It wasn’t like her to be silent. Maybe she was upset that I was moving up north… or maybe she was hurt that I didn’t tell her sooner. Those maybes had haunted me for years. I never had closure—just an open wound where our friendship used to be.
I asked my mother if she remembered the girl who lived nearby—the one I used to go to school with. She said she didn’t remember. I couldn’t blame her; her memory had faded with time.
I stood before the old house, inhaling the familiar scent of the rambutan tree bark. The faint roar of passing motorcycles filled the air—just as I remembered it. I walked toward the house and pushed the wooden door open. It creaked against rusted hinges, echoing through the empty space. The silence was heavy, almost alive.
Then, something caught my eye—a shadow flickered past. I held my breath, frozen.
There, in the corner of the hardwood floor, sat a small unicorn plush. Dust and cobwebs covered its mane, and the tip of its silver horn shimmered faintly under the light. A rush of familiarity surged through me. It was the same one—Alice’s unicorn.
Tears welled in my eyes. Why was it here? Why hadn’t anyone taken it and returned it to her? I moved closer, trembling, confusion blurring my thoughts.
And then—darkness.
Everything went black. Voices echoed faintly in my head. My body felt heavy, my chest tightening. Light began to seep in, and blurred figures surrounded me.
“Idris… Idris… sayang, thank God you’re awake.”
“Ha?” I groaned, my throat dry.
“Idris, dear… it’s your mother,” she said, her voice trembling with relief. I tried to reach for her hand—and that’s when I noticed the unicorn still in my grasp.
With a pounding head, I forced the words out: “What happened, Ma?”
She hesitated, holding back tears. “Idris… you were in an accident,” she whispered. “You’ve been in a coma for ten years.”
Alice was gone. She didn’t survive the crash. I had lost my memory right after it happened.
The unicorn wasn’t just a toy—it was a fragment of her. A piece of my mind that refused to let her go. My subconscious created a world where unicorns existed because, to me, Alice was one—magical, radiant, and impossibly rare.
The unicorn became my way back to happiness, the last piece of the angel she once was.
My angel.
My unicorn.
Alice.
