Nothing Special, Everything Important - By Lim Zhen Ping

Written By: Lim Zhen Ping

Category: Short Story - Fictional

Competition: Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026

In the poignant short story "Nothing Special, Everything Important," Lim Zhen Ping invites readers to reflect on the seemingly mundane moments that shape our lives. As part of the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026, this narrative beautifully encapsulates the essence of nostalgia and the passage of time through the lens of everyday experiences. With a keen eye for detail, the author transports us to a world where the ordinary becomes extraordinary, encouraging a deeper appreciation for the fleeting moments that often go unnoticed.

About the Work

Lim Zhen Ping's narrative masterfully explores themes of nostalgia and the impermanence of friendship. The story's mood is both contemplative and wistful, capturing the essence of moments that define us. Through vivid imagery and a conversational style, the work evokes a sense of longing for the past, inviting readers to cherish the little things in life. The piece is a tribute to the transient nature of human connections, urging us to value the present before it becomes a distant memory.

Nothing Special, Everything Important

Original Submission by Lim Zhen Ping

Nothing Special, Everything Important by Lim Zhen Ping

BOOM.

The sky cracks open.

Gold spills across the field. Someone shrieks before the sound lands, hands flying over their ears, laughing too loudly. The fireworks bloom and dissolve, bloom and dissolve, smoke curling into the humid night.

“Record this!” someone yells.

“I am!” I shout back, nearly fumbling the brand-new CCD in my hand. It is small and silver and stupidly light in my palm. It feels fragile, like it could break if I hold it too tightly.

“We should record everything this year,” you say, leaning over my shoulder to see the tiny screen. “Like, everything. Even the boring stuff.”

“Especially the boring stuff,” someone adds.

You grin at me, fireworks reflecting in your eyes like something permanent.

Another explosion splits the sky.

BOOM.

We don't know yet that one day, the loudest thing left of us will be silence.

-

We are walking to lecture in the kind of heat that never fully leaves Malaysia. The pavement radiates warmth, and the air sticks to our skin. Someone is complaining about the weather, someone else about attendance, and you are walking just a little too far behind me.

“Oi, wait!”

I turn around, walking backwards now, grinning. “Then walk faster!”

“You're going to fall.”

“I won't.”

I nearly trip over the uneven pavement.

Everyone laughs. I bow like I was meant to do that all along.

We pass the lake on our way to the lecture hall. The trees lean over the water, their reflections broken whenever the wind disturbs the surface. Stone steps descend towards the bank, with grass growing between the cracks, stubborn little patches of green that no one has bothered to pull out.

Someone suggests sitting there after class.

Someone else says they'll probably get bitten by mosquitoes.

You say you'll go if someone buys you a drink.

We keep walking.

The lake stays behind us, quiet and unbothered, as though it has watched a thousand groups of students make plans they never quite get around to keeping.

-

The new food court opens on a random weekday, and suddenly it is the only place that exists.

“It looks like a mall,” someone says, turning slowly with a tray in hand.

“It actually looks clean.”

“Give it two months.”

You are already staring at the malatang stall like you have discovered the meaning of life.

“I can't wait to try it.”

“You've had malatang before.”

“Not this one.”

“What makes this one different?”

You consider the question with the seriousness of a philosopher.

“It's here.”

And somehow, that is enough.

We spend too long deciding what to eat. Someone gets lost looking for a table. Someone else insists that the drinks are overpriced. Steam rises from the bowls, fogging glasses and curling into the air-conditioning.

You return with a bowl piled high enough to suggest that you are preparing for a famine.

“This is so good,” you announce, before even sitting down.

You say it with such conviction that I believe you.

-

The lecture theatre is freezing.

Not pleasantly cold. Not the kind of cold that makes you feel refreshed after walking under the afternoon sun. It is the kind of cold that seeps through your clothes and settles into your bones, the kind that makes you question whether the university is trying to preserve its students for future generations.

We have two lectures back-to-back. Three hours in total.

Three. Whole. Hours.

Someone rubs their hands together. Someone else has their arms folded so tightly they look like they're trying to hold themselves together.

“Why is it colder in here than in a refrigerator?”

“This is making me wanting to go into hibernation.”

“I think they want us to freeze.”

You are sitting beside me, your attention divided between the lecturer and the clock. Every few minutes, you lean over to whisper a comment that makes absolutely no contribution to my education but significantly improves my quality of life.

I try not to laugh.

You try not to laugh.

The person in front of us turns around.

We behave for approximately forty seconds.

By the second lecture, everyone's eyes have glazed over. The slides keep changing. The lecturer keeps talking. Outside, the afternoon carries on without us, bright and warm and entirely unaware of our suffering.

You slide a piece of paper towards me.

If I don't make it out alive, delete my search history.

I bite my lip so hard it hurts.

When the lecture finally ends, we spill into the corridor like prisoners being released. The sunlight hits our faces, and someone throws their head back dramatically.

“Freedom!”

You stretch both arms above your head.

“Food?”

“Food.”

Of course.

-

The lake looks different in the evening.

The water is darker now, reflecting the trees in long, trembling lines. The stone steps are warm beneath our legs, and the grass between them has grown just a little taller since the last time we sat here.

You are eating something from a plastic packet. Someone is lying on the step above us, complaining about an assignment. Someone else is taking pictures of the water, insisting that the lighting is perfect.

“Look at this,” you say, pointing towards the opposite bank.

A bird skims across the surface, leaving a thin trail behind it.

By the time I look, it is gone.

“You missed it.”

“I saw it.”

“No, you didn't.”

“I did.”

You laugh and lean back on your hands.

For a while, nobody says anything. The wind moves through the trees. Somewhere behind us, students are making their way towards the next class, their voices fading as they turn the corner.

I think about how nice it is to sit here doing absolutely nothing.

How rare it is to do nothing without feeling guilty about it.

How we always seem to be rushing somewhere, finishing something, worrying about what comes next.

“Should we come here again tomorrow?” I ask.

“Maybe.”

“That's not an answer.”

“Then yes.”

You say it so casually that I don't think to remember it.

-

“I don't want ice cream.”

“You always say that.”

“Because I don't want ice cream.”

We are standing in the frozen section of a convenient store, and my friends have somehow decided that my refusal is a personal challenge. They inspect the flavours, debate their choices, and ask me one more time, just to be annoying.

I say no again.

A few minutes later, a unicorn appears in front of me.

It is pink and blue and purple, with colours so aggressively bright that it looks like it has been assembled in a laboratory by scientists who have never seen a real horse.

I stare at it.

You stare at me.

“Surprise!”

“Why does it look like that?”

“Because it's a unicorn.”

“This thing has too much food colouring.”

“And chemicals,” someone adds solemnly.

“Probably illegal chemicals.”

“Don't eat it. You might glow in the dark.”

I take the ice cream anyway.

It begins melting almost immediately in the heat. A blue streak runs down the cone, and someone tells me my tongue is going to turn radioactive.

You laugh so hard you have to lean against the table.

I take a bite. It tastes like sugar, mostly. Maybe a little like artificial strawberry. Definitely nothing worth remembering.

“See?” you say. “You wanted ice cream.”

“I was forced into this.”

“Sure.”

You steal a bite before I can protest.

For the rest of the afternoon, my friends continue accusing me of being a hypocrite, and I continue insisting that I never wanted the ice cream in the first place.

I don't remember what we talked about afterwards.

I remember the colours.

-

“Three, two, one, go!”

Wordle resets at exactly 12:00 a.m.

You sit cross-legged on the floor, phone inches from your face. The room is dim except for the glow of our screens. The fan hums above us. Somewhere down the hallway, someone is arguing on the phone.

“I got it.”

“No, you didn't.”

“Four tries.”

You groan like I've betrayed you personally.

“Rematch tomorrow.”

“There is no rematch. It's a new word.”

“Same thing.”

“It literally isn't.”

You accuse me of getting lucky. I accuse you of having a limited vocabulary. You threaten to stop playing with me, and I tell you that you say that every night.

You say you'll beat me tomorrow.

Tomorrow feels automatic. Guaranteed.

The clock reads 12:06 a.m.

Neither of us thinks to wonder how many more midnights we'll spend arguing over five-letter words, or how many more times we'll say tomorrow as if it is a promise the world has made to us.

-

“Why do I look like that?”

“Because you chose to be the sloth.”

“It's method acting.”

The Zootopia costumes are a disaster.

Someone's ears keep falling sideways. Someone else's tail is dragging along the floor. You are trying to fix a piece of fabric that refuses to stay in place, and everyone has an opinion on how you should do it.

“Hold still.”

“I am holding still!”

“You're moving.”

“Because you're pulling my hair!”

The argument goes nowhere. It never does.

We walk across campus dressed as characters from an animated movie, attracting stares from people who have clearly decided not to ask questions. Someone requests a photo. Someone was deep in character. Someone begins laughing so hard they can barely stand.

You turn towards me, your costume slightly crooked, your face bright with embarrassment and amusement.

“We look ridiculous.”

“We are ridiculous.”

You laugh.

For a moment, I think that if this is all we ever do. If all we have is this, a ridiculous costume and a bad joke and the sound of you laughing at something that isn't even funny, it will be enough.

I don't know why I think that.

I only know that I do.

-

“Malatang again?”

You don't even look up. “What?”

“You had that yesterday.”

“So?”

“And the day before.”

“So?”

“And last week.”

You pause, chopsticks hovering over your bowl.

“Okay, and?”

“And nothing. I'm just saying.”

You shrug and continue eating.

Someone steals a fish ball from your bowl. You slap their hand away. They steal another one. You threaten to report them to the authorities.

The table dissolves into laughter.

It is such an ordinary conversation that I can't imagine ever forgetting it. I can almost hear your voice saying and? in that particular way you have, half-defensive and half-amused, as if the rest of us are ridiculous for questioning your perfectly reasonable devotion to a bowl of spicy soup.

I wonder if you still eat there.

I wonder if you still order the same thing.

I wonder if the stall owners recognise you.

I wonder if any of these questions have answers I will ever know.

-

The gingerbread house at the main entrance is larger than expected.

Artificial snow dusts the roof. Lights blink along the edges, red and green and white. People stop to take pictures before continuing on their way, and for a little while, the entrance feels less like a place we pass through every day and more like somewhere worth staying.

“Take it properly,” you insist. “Don't crop the top.”

“I'm not!”

“Wait, my hair!”

“It's fine!”

“No, it's not. Take another one.”

We take too many pictures. Jumping shots that never synchronise. Group photos where someone blinks. Pictures where everyone looks good except the person who took them.

We keep trying.

Behind us, the gingerbread house glows.

Someone jokes that we should take the same picture every year, just to see how much we've changed.

“Who's going to remember to do that?” someone asks.

“Me,” you say.

You sound so certain.

I believe you.

We stand there longer than necessary, adjusting our positions, laughing at the pictures, arguing about which one looks best. Eventually, someone says they are hungry, and the moment ends the way most of our moments do: eat.

We leave the gingerbread house behind.

The lights keep blinking.

-

The library is too cold.

“Finals are killing me,” someone whispers dramatically.

“Finals aren't even here yet.”

“I'm suffering in advance.”

Highlighters roll off the table. Pages turn. Someone doodles in the margins instead of taking notes. You lean back in your chair and stare at the ceiling as if the answers might be written there.

I nudge your foot beneath the table.

You nudge mine back.

A scrap of paper appears beside my notebook.

This is pointless.

I write underneath it:

Everything is.

You read it, look at me, and roll your eyes so hard I worry they might get stuck.

Then you crumple the paper and throw it at me.

We keep studying anyway.

The air smells like paper and recycled air-conditioning. Someone coughs two tables away. A chair scrapes against the floor. Outside, the day is probably beautiful, but none of us can remember what the sky looks like.

We are tired. We are behind on work. We have deadlines and presentations and things we keep promising ourselves we'll start tomorrow.

But we are there.

And for some reason, that makes the work feel manageable.

-

It is late again.

Someone is singing off-key to a song playing softly from a speaker. Someone else throws a pillow. It misses its target and hits the wall instead.

You are lying on your stomach, chin propped on your hands, scrolling through your phone.

“This is so boring,” you say.

“Then leave.”

“No.”

The fan hums. The room is warm. A packet of snacks lies open between us, and nobody remembers who bought it.

We talk about nothing. We complain about people. We discuss food we want to eat, places we want to go, things we will do when we finally have enough time.

Someone suggests a trip.

Someone else says we should plan it properly.

We never do.

You laugh at something on your phone and turn the screen towards me. I don't understand the joke, but I laugh anyway because you're laughing, and somehow that is enough.

I don't think about how much I will miss the sound.

I don't think about how one day, I might struggle to remember exactly what your laugh sounds like without something to remind me.

I don't think about anything ending.

Why would I?

There is no reason to.

-

BOOM.

The sky cracks open.

Gold spills across the field. Someone shrieks before the sound lands. You turn towards me, your face bright with a light that no longer exists.

The laughter stutters.

The image shakes.

And then, nothing.

I stare at the screen.

For a moment, I don't move. I can hear the fan turning above me, the faint hum of the laptop, the distant sound of a car passing outside.

That is all.

I press play again.

The fireworks return. So do the voices, the laughter, the person shouting something I can never quite make out. You turn towards me again, smiling as though the world has given you every reason to.

I pause the video.

The room is dark except for the light spilling across my desk. My phone lies beside the laptop, face-up, its screen blank. There is an untouched glass of water beside it. The chair opposite me is empty.

I have been sitting here for hours.

The small silver CCD is connected to my laptop. Its battery has long since run out, but the files remain, tucked away in folders I have been too afraid to open for months.

I don't remember when I started watching.

I only remember telling myself that I would watch one clip.

Just one.

The fireworks were first. Then the lecture walk. Then the lake. The Wordle game. The food court. The unicorn ice cream, which I had forgotten about until tonight. The costumes. The gingerbread house.

Clip after clip.

Three years of us, broken into pieces small enough to fit inside a memory card.

I look at the time stamps.

January.

March.

June.

October.

December.

Different days. Different clothes. Different versions of us.

I watch myself laugh in a clip I don't remember being filmed in. I watch someone reach across a table to steal someone's food. I watch us sitting by the lake, the water rippling behind us. I watch someone complain about the cold lecture theatre, their voice muffled beneath the rustling of someone's jacket.

I watch us all eat malatang together.

Again.

And again.

And again.

There are moments I remember perfectly and moments I had forgotten entirely. A hand resting on someone's shoulder. Someone calling my name from outside the frame. A joke that makes everyone laugh, though I can no longer remember what was funny about it.

I keep waiting for something new to happen.

For someone to say something I have never heard before. For someone to turn towards the camera and tell me something that will make sense of everything that came after.

But the clips end.

They end when someone reaches for the wrong button. When the battery dies. When the person holding the camera gets distracted. They end in the middle of laughter, in the middle of a sentence, in the middle of a perfectly ordinary afternoon.

The CCD never catches what happens after.

It doesn't catch the last time we walk to lecture together.

It doesn't catch the last midnight refresh.

It doesn't catch the last bowl of malatang we share, or the last time we sit by the lake with nothing to do.

It doesn't catch the gradual, almost imperceptible way people become busy. The way replies get shorter. The way plans become harder to make. The way a group chat that once never stopped buzzing grows quiet, until someone sends a message and nobody knows quite what to say.

It doesn't catch the moment when we should hang out soon becomes something we say because we don't know how else to acknowledge the distance between us.

It doesn't catch the last time I see you.

I don't even know when that was.

That is the part I cannot forgive myself for.

I remember the fireworks. I remember the costumes. I remember laughing until my stomach hurt over a joke that probably wasn't even funny. I remember the ridiculous unicorn ice cream and the way you stole a bite after insisting you didn't want any.

But I don't remember the last ordinary day.

I don't remember the last time we sat together without thinking about it. The last time I heard your voice and didn't realise I should listen more carefully. The last time I could have asked you to stay a little longer, and didn't, because there was always tomorrow.

I thought I would remember the important things.

Birthdays. Farewells. Milestones. The moments worth taking pictures of.

I never thought I would miss the way you complained about the air-conditioning, or the way you said and? whenever someone questioned your third consecutive bowl of malatang.

I never thought I would sit alone in my room, watching you laugh at something I can no longer remember, and wish I had paid more attention.

The screen goes dark when the clip ends.

My reflection stares back at me.

For a moment, I almost expect someone to speak.

To ask what I'm doing awake so late. To complain that the video is too loud. To tell me to stop watching the same thing over and over again.

Nobody does.

I close the laptop.

The room is quiet in a way it never used to be.

I reach for the CCD and turn it over in my hands. It is still small and silver, still stupidly light. I remember how excited we were when we first got it, how we passed it around, how everyone wanted to be in front of it. I remember promising that we would record everything.

We did.

We recorded the fireworks, the food, the lectures, the laughter. We recorded the things we thought we would forget.

Somehow, we forgot everything else.

I put the CCD back in the drawer.

There are no grand endings to most friendships. No final conversation that tells you it is time to let go. No music swelling in the background, no last embrace, no moment in which the world politely pauses to let you understand what you are losing.

Sometimes, people simply stop being part of your everyday life.

And you don't notice until you have to look for them.

Until you open an old chat and realise the last message was months ago. Until you walk past the food court and remember someone who used to eat at the same stall every other day. Until you pass the lake and find yourself looking towards the stone steps, half-expecting to see familiar faces sitting there.

Until you hear a laugh that sounds almost like theirs and turn around before remembering.

I don't know if you miss me.

I don't know if you ever watch your own memories and feel this strange ache, this wanting to return to a time you didn't know you were leaving.

Maybe you remember everything differently.

Maybe, to you, these were just ordinary days. Maybe you have already made new memories with new people, and the things I keep replaying are no longer important enough for you to think about.

I hope you have.

I hope you are happy. I hope you still laugh like that. I hope you have someone beside you when the lecture theatre gets too cold, someone to steal bites of your food, someone to argue with at midnight over a five-letter word.

I hope there is still a place for you to sit by a lake when the world gets too loud.

I hope you are not sitting alone in a dark room, trying to remember the sound of people who once made your life feel full.

Because I am.

And I don't know what to do with all this remembering.

The CCD is back in its drawer. The laptop is closed. The room is dark.

Tomorrow, I will wake up. I will go to work. I will buy lunch. I will walk past people who are laughing with their friends, and I will probably laugh at something someone says too.

Life will continue in all the ways it is supposed to.

Perhaps that is the cruellest part.

The world does not end when a chapter of your life does. Everything carries on, even when the people who made it meaningful are no longer there.

But we didn't know.

We were young, tired and hungry and perpetually late. We were friends, making plans we thought we had time to keep.

There was nothing special about those days.

We didn't treat them like they mattered.

We didn't mark them as last.

We didn't know we should.

-

I press play one more time.

You turn towards the camera.

You laugh.

And for three seconds, I am there again.

For three seconds, we are all still together.

Then the clip ends.

Nothing special.

Everything important.

About the Competition

The Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026 by Hashtag Kalakar is a prestigious platform celebrating the art of storytelling. It brings together talented writers from around the world, offering them the opportunity to showcase their creativity and unique voices. With categories ranging from poetry to short stories, the competition highlights diverse narratives that resonate with global audiences, fostering a community of literary excellence.

We extend our heartfelt thanks to Lim Zhen Ping for sharing "Nothing Special, Everything Important" with us. This evocative short story, part of the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026, reminds us of the beauty in everyday life and the importance of cherishing our memories. Lim Zhen Ping's work is a testament to the power of writing to capture and preserve the essence of human experience.

About Hashtag Kalakar

Hashtag Kalakar is a creative platform dedicated to providing artists, writers, singers and other creative talents with opportunities to showcase their work and reach wider audiences through competitions, features and creative initiatives.