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He often walked me home, and sometimes we ended up on the rooftop of my apartment. I never invited him to my apartment. It was too soon for that.

From the rooftop, the city shimmered like a galaxy spilled across the earth. Neon light—electric blue and fiery red—streaked through the darkness. I can hear the distant traffic and feel the cool breeze carrying the faint scent of a nearby night market. Above, Taipei 101 tower pierced the sky, glowing against the stars. He leaned against the railing, gazing into the distance.

We talked about anything. There was no rush of pressure with him, just a gentle assurance that he would hold whatever I shared with care.

Tonight, I asked him what he would do if he woke up one day able to speak every language, even those of animals.

I watched the way the wind played with his hair.

He smirked. A small, knowing curve appeared on his lips.

“That’s a very you question. What would you do with it?”

I thought for a moment.

“I’d talk to the stray cats near the cafe. I’d ask them if they’re hungry or safe. Maybe they’d tell me where they hide when it rains.”

“You’d befriend all the strays. What else?”

I talked about my culture.

“The Burung Bubut* isn’t just a bird; it’s a messenger of omens. Its eerie call is thought to announce the passing of a soul to the realm of the dead. I’d ask it if it truly carries omens or if it knows when a soul is about to pass.”

“I’d also ask the Malayan tiger and the Bornean orangutan how they feel about losing their home. I’d listen to the stories that humans never hear.”

He tilted his head, considering.

“You think animals would trust us with their truths?”

The distant wail of a cat in heat cut through the night. It echoed down the narrow alley and off the damp brick walls like an eerie plea. I thought briefly about that pitiful, horny creature before answering.

“Maybe they wouldn’t trust us at first. But if they did, we could offer help. Imagine knowing what an endangered species really needs instead of assuming. Conservation would be a collaboration and not just a human effort.”

His fingers tapped idly against the metal railing.

“And humans? What about all the dying languages?”

“I’d want to preserve them. Speak to the last few speakers and hear their stories before they’re lost forever, like the language of Orang Kanaq that has fewer than 35 speakers left. If I could learn and document their language, maybe it wouldn’t disappear. And what would it be like if I could speak to the Sentinelese in the Andaman Sea? Maybe we’d find common ground without breaking their solitude.”

I could hear a couple arguing somewhere in the distance, probably further down the alley.

He looked at me with a gentle smile.

“Imagine cooperating with animals to make art. Bird melodies for songwriting. Dance movements from the dolphins. Poems inspired by the haunting cries of the whales.”

I nodded and smiled at the possibility.

He exhaled and was quiet for a while.

“You don’t have to speak to them all the time. You want to listen too.”

“Yeah. I’d love to sit peacefully next to an orange stray cat who basked lazily under the sun.”

Our gaze met, and I quickly averted my eyes. We stayed silent while the city stretched endlessly before us. In that moment, perched on the edge of the rooftop, it felt like the world was alive with voices—rising, falling, each one clamoring to be heard and to be understood.

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Note:

• Burung Bubut—Greater Coucal. In Iban culture, it is believed that when the bird calls, someone has passed away.
• Orang Kanaq—One of the 18 Orang Asli ethnic groups in Malaysia. They are classified under the Proto-Malay people group, which forms the three major people groups of the Orang Asli. (source: wikipedia)

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