The Last Time I Held His Hand I ran through the hospital corridor without stopping, heading straight for Room 15. I was running so fast that it felt as though my soul had left my body. By the time I reached the room, I was out of breath, terrified, and unable to utter a word. As I slowly opened the door, I walked toward a frail but warm-hearted man lying on the hospital bed. The sharp smell of disinfectant filled the room, making everything feel even colder. Even in pain, his eyes still carried the same warmth that had comforted me since childhood. Despite his condition, he was trying to spend one last precious moment with a frightened, tearful boy—me. "Don't cry," my grandfather whispered, trying to comfort me. The last time I held his hand, I didn't know it would be the last. His fingers felt colder than usual, yet he still smiled at me. I smiled back, unaware that those few seconds would stay with me for the rest of my life. For a few moments, we talked about old memories—my first day at school, the day my ice cream slipped from my hands, and the time he protected me from an angry dog. Although my body was in that hospital room, my mind wandered through every memory we had shared. Every weekend, I visited my grandfather in his quiet village. I didn't go because my parents told me to—I went because he had lived alone since my grandmother passed away. His home was surrounded by flowers and fresh country air. "Here comes my little champion," he would say every time he saw me. After helping him water the flowers or pick vegetables, we would sit outside with cups of coffee, enjoying the peaceful silence far from the hustle and bustle of city life. He always told me, "One day, you'll become someone the world will be proud of." Those conversations meant everything to me. Suddenly, I was pulled back to reality. The steady beeping of the heart monitor turned into one long, terrifying sound. Doctors rushed into the room, desperately trying to save him. They performed CPR, shouting instructions while machines echoed throughout the room. They tried to lead me outside, but I couldn't move. I stood frozen in the corner, as if my feet had been rooted to the floor. My hands wouldn't stop shaking, and I could hear my heartbeat louder than the machines. Only five minutes passed. Yet those five minutes felt like an eternity. Then my grandfather slowly turned his head toward me. Looking into my eyes, he whispered just four words... "Never forget your family." A gentle smile appeared on his face. Then he closed his eyes forever. At that moment, I couldn't tell whether I wanted to cry, scream, or simply stand there in silence. The following day, I returned to his house alone. This time, I wasn't carrying excitement—I was carrying regret. The garden was still there. The flowers were still blooming. The birds were still singing. But the chair where we used to drink coffee sat empty, and the coffee cups were gone. The silence spoke louder than words. Before leaving, I whispered, "Goodbye for now, Grandpa. I promise I'll come back as the person you always believed I could become." Time moved on, but my grandfather never truly left me. His words stayed with me every step, inspiring me to work toward my dream of becoming a diplomat. Every step toward my dream reminds me of the promise I made to him. Since then, I have treasured every moment with my family, never taking their presence for granted. I began spending more time with them, joining every family gathering, celebration, and simple moment that once seemed ordinary. I no longer rush through family dinners. Instead, I stay a little longer, listening to stories I once thought I would hear forever. One evening, while my parents were talking at the dinner table, I put my phone away and simply listened. For the first time, I realized those ordinary conversations were the moments I would one day miss the most. I still visit his home whenever I can. Sometimes, I sit in the same empty chair where we once shared cups of coffee. Sometimes, the wind gently moves the trees, and for a moment, it feels as though he is sitting beside me again. I tell him about the dreams I am still chasing, as if he were quietly listening with the same warm smile. Whenever I look at the stars, I remember that sleepless night and silently thank him for everything he gave me. To this day, I continue striving to become the person he believed I could be. Every step I take brings me closer to fulfilling the promise I made that day. Although I can no longer hold his hand, I still carry the lessons he placed in mine. Only after losing him did I truly understand that the greatest gift we can give the people we love is not expensive presents or perfect words—it is our time. Because we never truly know when an ordinary moment will become the last time we hold someone's hand.

As the neon, retro exterior buzzes gently against the night sky, the“I” in the DINER flickers softly. A rain-slicked asphalt reflects the warm honey-colored glow spilling through the panoramic floor-to-ceiling windows. Inside, the counter, a strip of long, gleaming stainless steel, is lined with chrome-legged swivel stools with cracked, cherry-red vinyl tops. Against the walls and windows are high-backed, alcoves with duct-taped seams; they sport a well-worn, yet deeply comfortable, look. The bell rings as a customer walks in, letting a cool draft of evening air. Squinting past the bright lights, he shows himself to his usual spot: right next to the glass cake display dome, with a quarter-sliced pecan pie, humming on the counter. His hands shake slightly as he pulls the chair out. He habitually brushes aside the glass shakers of salt and pepper to make room for his elbows, and does he bother reading the laminated, slightly sticky tri-fold menu resting on the stainless steel napkin dispenser. The customer's arrival alerts a waitress in her mid-twenties who's washing her hands. She dries her hands, plucks a notepad and pencil from her crisp red uniform apron, then crosses the distance to the elderly in quick steps. A bright smile emerges on her face as she prepares to take his order. “What'll it be today?” she asks politely. The senior fixes an intensifying gaze on her face, as though trying to place her features. After a moment's hesitation, he answers, “Would you happen to have…carrot cake?” “Of course, would that be all for today?” she prompts, “How about a glass of warm milk to go with your dessert?” His eyes light up for a brief second, and his smile warms, as though a silent understanding hangs in the air between them. Then he nods in agreement. The waitress's radiant smile falters for a fraction of a second before she tightens her cheeks to force it back in place. With the order fresh in her mind, she places the unused notepad and pencil back in her uniform and tasks herself with readying the order. A couple minutes pass, and the lady returns. On her right palm, she carries the comforting scent of sweet cinnamon, sharp nutmeg, and rich brown sugar. The slice has a dark amber crumb with vibrant orange shreds and pale yellow bites; its frosting is thick and snowy-white. On her left hand, she holds a heavy, tinted glass three-quarters full with steaming milk. A distinctly nutty scent of toasted-grain rises with the steam and blends with the dessert's velvety aroma. The man looks up eagerly, with the eyes of a delighted child. He lifts his hands toward the drink as it arrives, then his hands suddenly retreat into balled fists. “Oh my. I'm afraid I can't have milk.” He mutters softly, almost incoherently. As though expecting this reaction, the waitress places a consoling hand on the weathered, knobby knuckles. With a reassuring smile, she says, “Don't worry, it's oat milk. Dairy free.” His shoulders drop with a deflated sigh, and his fingers relax against the counter. He nods meekly, as though the waitress's words struck a chord of pure trust, then reaches back out towards the warm glass. As he lifts the glass with both hands, his fingers soak in the warmth of the beverage. With a cautious sip, the robust and creamy taste of oat milk washes over him in a familiar way. The wrinkles of panic on his forehead are replaced by ease. Looking up at the young waitress, his eyes seem to clear and glisten beneath his white eyebrows. He reaches across the counter, placing his frail, wrinkled hand over hers. “I was feeling a bit lost today, dear,” he spoke in a soft, yet steady tone. “Yet, being here now, makes me feel like I'm finally home.” The waitress felt a single tear, long held back, escape her eye; it traced a hot path down her cheek. Instead of wiping it away and forcing a professional smile, she gives his warm hand a sharp squeeze back. “You are home,” she whispered in reply, anchoring herself to his touch. “Take your time, dad.”

My hands were completely coated in sticky blackberry juice, and my phone screen was... well, an absolute disaster. Every single time I swiped to check the news, I managed to leave a translucent purple smudge over headlines that were already depressing enough on their own. Tech layoffs. Some new, incredibly tedious political gridlock. The usual background radiation of our current world. It felt like everything was coming unglued lately, and here I was, standing in my Aunt Martha's aggressively humid kitchen on a Tuesday afternoon, trying to force fruit to obey a printed recipe. My Aunt, who is seventy-two but still possesses a kind of terrifyingly perfect posture, was completely unbothered by the state of the world. Or the state of my phone, for that matter. She was humming something unrecognizable, her silver hair pinned up haphazardly with a yellow No. 2 pencil. We were standing together after so long, trying to make blackberry jam. It was supposed to be our grand, anchoring project for the week. Or something wholesome and tangible to quiet the persistent anxiety sitting right behind my ribs for some reason. “You're hovering,” Martha said, without looking up from the boiling water bath. “The jars won't seal any faster just because you're glaring at them.” “I'm just checking the timer,” I muttered, though my phone actually showed a half-read, doom-mongering article about an impending economic crisis. I felt a little ridiculous. Actually, entirely ridiculous. Why was I so intensely wound up about a few glass jars of fruit? Was it because in a world where you can't control the macro, the inflation, the global tension, the sheer, staggering complexity of human conflict, you desperately want to control the micro? I wanted the sugar to bind with the pectin. I wanted the vacuum seal to pop. I just wanted something to go exactly the way the manual said it would, for once. But the universe, or at least her highness, the blackberries, had other plans. Because after hours of sterilizing glass, mashing berries until my wrists ached, measuring sugar with a level of precision that felt almost clinical, and testing droplets on a frozen spoon, the jam simply refused to thicken. It remained a stubborn, bubbling, glossy syrup. It was, essentially, hot purple soup. “We did everything right,” I said, looking at the runny liquid in profound frustration. I felt this ridiculous surge of irritation, far out of proportion to the actual situation. It felt like a tiny, deeply personal betrayal by the cosmos. “We boiled it for the exact eight minutes. The pectin wasn't expired. I checked the date twice.” Martha leaned against the laminate counter, looking at the large steel pot, and then at my heavily smudged phone. She reached over, took a clean wooden spoon, and dipped it into the warm, runny syrup. She tasted it, blowing on it first with a soft whoosh. “Well,” she said, the corners of her eyes crinkling. “It's terrible jam. It'll run right off a piece of toast and absolutely ruin your shirt.” “Should we re-boil it?” I asked, already reaching for the backup box of pectin in the pantry. “We can probably fix it if we add more acid.” Martha shook her head. She walked over to the freezer, pulled out a thoroughly dented tub of cheap vanilla bean ice cream, and scooped a generous mound into a cracked ceramic bowl. Then, she ladled a heavy, steaming stream of our failed, runny blackberry syrup right over the top. The deep purple ran into the melting white crevices, looking incredibly rich and violently bright. She handed me a spoon. “Try it.” I hesitated. I really wanted the neat little jars lined up in the pantry with handwritten, aesthetic labels. I wanted the satisfaction of a completed, perfectly executed task to prove I had control over my afternoon. But I took a bite anyway. It was, honestly, spectacular. The sharp warmth of the syrup against the freezing cream, the wild, earthy tartness of the summer berries cutting straight through the heavy sweetness of the vanilla, it almost felt alive. “Sometimes,” Martha said, sitting down at the creaky kitchen table, “we spend so much time trying to make things set that we forget to enjoy them when they run.” I sat down opposite her, the wooden chair scraping loudly against the linoleum, looked at my phone, still sitting on the counter with its sticky purple smudges. Maybe she's right. We can't really force the world into neat, predictable jars. But we can still scoop the ice cream. We can still try and find the sweetness in the runny, ungelled middle of things. Martha reached into her apron pocket and pulled out an unopened packet of fruit pectin. "I was supposed to add this while you were sterilizing the jars," she whispered conspiratorially. "But my phone buzzed, and I forgot." I was speechless, yet an uncontrollable, deep laughter sprung up from my throat. My jam hadn't set, yet everything felt perfectly balanced now.

She was ten years old the first time she understood that wanting something badly enough could make your hands shake. The acceptance letters didn't come like that. They came quietly, one after another, landing in her inbox like small answered prayers she hadn't dared say aloud. Twenty-three universities. Most of them said yes. She would read each one twice, then a third time, her lips moving slightly — making sure something was real. The Ohio State University said yes too. She printed that one. The visa eligibility letter arrived on an unremarkable Tuesday. She held it with both hands, edges creased where her fingers pressed too hard without realizing. For the first time in months, something in her chest unclenched. Then her father looked at her and said, quietly, almost gently: "If only you were a boy. Things would have been much easier." He was afraid. Any father would be — his daughter, alone, in a foreign country with no one beside her. But fear dressed as love still closes doors. She didn't drop the paper. She folded it instead, crease by crease, the way you fold something you don't know what to do with. Went to her room. Sat on the edge of her bed and stared at the wall until it blurred. Then she cried. Quietly. Girls who love their fathers learn early to cry that way — pressing the sound inward, keeping it small, not making it anyone else's problem. Her father had sold his car to fund the applications. Two thousand dollars. Gone — paid into fees and documents and the particular cost of chasing something enormous. She thought about that number for weeks afterward. Not with bitterness. With a grief that had no clean name. He had believed in her enough to sell something he loved. It still wasn't enough. Her teachers had been watching. Her friends had been waiting for the ending they expected. She'd been waiting too — had almost started packing in her mind. She had to unpick all of it. Watch people's faces rearrange into something careful and kind, which is its own particular grief. She sat for DTM instead. But she had spent her sharpest months chasing a different future, and the gaps showed up exactly where she needed them not to. She chose one university in the capital almost without thinking. Fate chose the capital. She packed anyway. She had always been the kind of person who packs anyway. The first morning there, she woke to an unfamiliar ceiling and lay still, listening. The sounds were wrong. The light was wrong. She had left a stable job — and been mocked for it. Left her best friends. Left her mother's kitchen, the specific smell of it. The friendships she'd left behind thinned slowly — message by message, until silence stretched long enough to mean something. She grew thin that year. Financially and otherwise. Some weeks she calculated meals the way she once calculated deadlines — carefully, no room for error. She was lonely the way only people who have always been surrounded can be lonely: acutely, constantly aware of the absence. Then she met her. A girl who didn't fix anything. Just sat with her in the difficulty like staying required no explanation. That kind of friendship doesn't announce itself. It just appears — and then you cannot imagine before it. She enrolled in accounting. Always wanted to. There was something in the order of it, the way numbers answered to logic, that steadied her. She built a routine. Then a life inside the routine. She called her mother more. That was the quiet revolution nobody saw. Distance did what proximity never could — made her reach, made her say what she'd kept folded up for years. Later had finally arrived. She is not the girl who held that letter anymore. That girl thought Ohio State was everything. This one knows it was a door — and when it closed, loudly, in a way she didn't deserve, she was pushed down a narrower path that led somewhere the wider one never would have. She found accounting. A friend who became home. Her mother, again. And slowly, without ceremony — herself. The version that existed before everyone else's expectations reshaped her. Some losses don't stay losses forever. What once felt like an ending slowly became something else—something I didn't have the words for at the time. My dream didn't disappear. It changed shape, and I learned how to live inside the new one.

Uncle Joe was known for his bad temper. Neighbors avoided his house, fearing his gloom was infectious. Joe didn't mind; he preferred the silence to their judging eyes. Not that he minded. He did not enjoy seeing the folk's judging faces as well, so he supposed the feeling was mutual. He had never had a wife, friends, nor children. His parents were long since dead. It should have hurt him, drowned him in despair. But uncle Joe was used to loneliness, even favored the lingering feeling of emptiness in his chest that stayed as if it was a stubborn mule. This morning was unlike any other. Following the routine, he grudgingly woke up to the alarm's buzz, took a pricking, ice-cold shower, and got in his same, dull gray clothing he wore every single day. “Why bother dressing up for nobody?” he muttered, exhaling a plume of cigarette smoke at his reflection. Wrinkles were his only companions. There were some on his forehead, under his eyes and yet there were no crinkles on the cornerns of his eyes, nor did he have prominent smile lines, as if happiness itself has stripped itself away from him. His deep blue eyes, which were supposed to look like a beautiful ocean, instead looked cold as an iceberg, unnerving to the gaze. People might have wondered why he was like this, why it was as if he had a constant rain cloud over his head. The truth is, he was not like this all the time. Decades ago, Suzanne had been his light. But cancer took her when they were just high school sweethearts, leaving him in a world that had stayed dark ever since. He sniffed as he remembered her dear face and opened a beer can, taking a huge swig. He sighed. Today was Sunday, so no work was expected from him. Good, he thought. Now I might as well have time to watch sweet ol' soccer. Like usual, he prepared himself a plain sandwich while taking bitter swigs of beer and finally sat down on the plush sofa with a grunt. Apart from wrinkles, sofa was the one thing that has always welcomed him with a soft embrace. Just as he settled in to find a TV program, a loud thud, scratching, and whiny meows interrupted him. He groaned in annoyance, "I swear if som'body pranking me with that cat I ain't gonna control my so-called temper this time!" He set down his beer can and stood up, lazily stepping outside to check for the noise. He squinted at the bright sunlight, and walked a circle around the house trying to find the source. When he reached the rain gutter, the noise got louder. He tutted, "You stupid cat! How did you even get in there?" He grabbed gloves and a flashlight from the garage. Inside the open gutter, a small, terrified figure meowed up at him. He sighed and shook his head, speaking softly, "It's okay, lil' one. I'm gettin' ya out." He gently got the kitten in his hands, careful so that the kitten would not scratch him. When he looked down in the kitten in his arms, a small tingling feeling of hope evolved in his chest, which was dwindled down by the feeling of doubt. What if the same will happen to this kitten as it did to Suzanne? "I'm goin' to wash ya now," he muttered, gently scrubbing the grime away until the kitten was warm and comfy. As he was filling a bowl with milk, he grunted as he saw the brightness in the kitten's eyes as it meowed, "Don't get used to it, buddy. I'm still goin' to sumbit ya to the animal shelter, other way or not." But as the kitten started drinking from the bowl, now his doubt changed into the one whether if he actually had to get rid of the kitten. He snapped out of it. Remember, happiness always got out of your life as soon as you grasped it. Why would this time be any different? And yet, he wanted it to be different. He was too tired to live a life filled with anger and sadness. He needed a break from this. He muttered, "I have to think." He got the can he left on the table and turned on the soccer program again, thoughts about the kitten forming a tangled mess in his poor old head. He was so engrossed in his own mind, that he did not even notice that the kitten jumped and settled in his lap, meowing as if sensing the war that his thoughts brought. He chuckled and stroked the kitten's head, "You dear thing..." The kitten closed its eyes and purred loudly, making Joe laugh, "You look just like Suzanne, don't you?" A detail he noticed just at that moment. Suzanne had bright red hair and green eyes which seemed to sparkle anytime she was excited. Her eyes remained the same even if she was slowly suffocating inside, even if her hair has slowly lost its color. And the kitten, it seemed, had pretty similar features. A smile crept up his face, "Oh, dear Suzanne. I knew you would come back." Another meow from the kitten brought pure delight to his heart, and the gray walls of the house seemed brighter than they were, as if the house itself was happy . And he knew, that he would let the kitten stay. His happiness was finally back, and this moment made him understand -- life is not over.

Ten-year-old Diwa sat folded into the quiet corner of her room with her back pressed against the cool, unyielding wall as if she needed something solid to lean her small world against. In her hands, two dolls dangled, one in each palm. She lifted them gently and her lips parted without sound, shaping the words she wished they could speak. Diwa didn't like making noise. Not because she disliked her voice, and not because she was shy. Simply because silence was the safer option. “PUTANGINA! GAGO KA?” Diwa froze. The dolls slipped slightly in her hands and a tight feeling bloomed in her chest. She didn't think. Her body moved before her mind did. She set the dolls down with trembling care and pushed herself up from the floor, leaving the wall that could no longer anchor her. Diwa was scared, but only the words scared her. She wasn't scared to walk towards the sound, nor was she scared to help her mother. She creaked open the bedroom door and saw what she was used to seeing. It didn't happen every day, but it happened enough for Diwa to know her “routine”, the one she never named but had memorized in her bones. She slipped through the doorway and rushed forward. She grabbed the nearest pillow with both hands and darted towards her mother, holding it up like a fragile shield. It wasn't much, but it was what she had learned to do. Diwa wasn't the type to fight back. She didn't have the confidence to raise her voice or her hands, especially not against her own father. But it wasn't only the lack of confidence that held her still, it was belief. Belief that her father wasn't truly like this, that he didn't mean to be. That the man behind the fists and violent words was someone gentle, someone she could someday have a real relationship with, like the kind all her friends seemed to have without trying. And despite everything, she still loved him. Despite the cruel words, the sharp corrections or the way he struck her hands with the edge of a pencil whenever she wrote the wrong answer. She still opened her math books with hope, reading her science chapter carefully hoping to see a once in a blue moon smile, and a soft, “Good job, Diwa.” It never came. Now, Diwa was seventeen. Her relationship with her father hadn't gotten much better but it hadn't gotten worse either. She was applying to college now, a milestone she had imagined would feel freeing. But there was one problem, Diwa didn't want to major in STEM like her father demanded. She sat with that truth for weeks, the question pressing her mind, How do I tell him? Do I even tell him at all? But Diwa had a stubborn mind, one that refused to spend the rest of her life trapped into her father's idea of a “perfect child.” So she told him. “I want to major in English.” The outburst was immediate, exactly what she had imagined would happen. “I didn't raise you like this, anak.” Surprisingly, Diwa remained calm. “Why can't you be more like your cousins?” he snapped. “They do what they're told without being asked.” Diwa steadied herself with one breath, then a second, her frustration slowly easing. “Every child has their own capabilities,” she finally said. “Their own desires. Their own dreams.” She held his gaze. “And if you're so fond of people who aren't your children, why have children at all?” She paused, letting the weight of her words settle. “If you want something you can control so badly, then breed horses. Why have children?” Her father didn't say another word. Diwa turned and left the house, her steps echoing in the hallways she had known for all her life. Weirdly, she felt like she had “won”, even though she now had to face college tuition and finding some sort of shelter on her own. She knew life would get impossibly harder after cutting off her only source of family. Happiness had seemed unreachable with no money, no home, no freedom. But maybe that was the point, to take the first step toward a life that belonged entirely to her. With no hope, she reached out to friends she hadn't spoken to in months, due to being locked in her home under study and expectation. Unexpectedly, they welcome her in. Diwa was surprised at how forgiving people could be. They welcomed her back as though no time had passed, as though distance and silence could be erased with simple kindness. For the first time in years, Diwa also got to visit her mother's grave. Forbidden for so long, she now stood before the moss-covered stone. Strangely, she didn't feel sadness, only relief. Relief for herself and her mother. Both had escaped the “hell” they'd been trapped in. Reconnecting with friends and meeting new people, she discovered life brimming with possibility. Diwa even found love, a guy named Max, who reminded her the world was bigger than fear. She had left the cage, the mold and for the first time, she felt the exhilarating truth, she belonged to no one but herself.

I've had many people slip in and out of my life over the years. Some people stay for a few weeks, and some of them last for years. I do think about them sometimes, but there's one person that always stays in the back of my mind no matter where I am, who I'm with, or what I'm doing. Once in a lifetime, you meet a person that truly understands. You meet someone that is a perfect foil of your favorite qualities in a person. Usually, when I drift away from someone, I accept it. Sometimes, it even stings a little to let them go, but I still find ways to cope with the absence of them in my life. However, there's someone that I lost years ago, and no matter how much time passes, I can't get over their loss. They were my other half: the greatest friend I've ever had, and probably ever will have. I met them in 5th grade, specifically when our seats were placed next to each other. We were both infatuated with drawing, even though they were leagues better than me. But more importantly, we both loved to laugh. There was never a moment when we weren't uncontrollably giggling at something, which was almost always an inside joke. We had dozens and dozens of inside jokes, enough to fill entire pages with nonsense. I didn't realize it at the time, but the memories I created with them were some of, if not the most cherished memories I have. I didn't realize that I would never feel companionship like that again, and I regret taking it all for granted. I also regret never expressing to them how much they meant to me. They were never the sentimental type, so I thought it would be out of place to get all sappy about our friendship. They have no idea that I still think about them a lot. They have no idea how much I replay our memories together whenever I need a reminder of how good life can get. They changed me for the better, and there are no words to express how grateful I am for that. By 7th grade, we had completely stopped talking to each other for multiple reasons out of our control. At the time, I didn't even realize that we had stopped talking. It all happened so gradually that I failed to notice. At first, only a few days of silence would go by before we struck up another conversation, but days turned into weeks, and weeks turned into months, and when I finally realized how much time had passed since we had last talked, it had been almost 2 years. The time of my life when we were friends is still the time of my life that I remember the most fondly, and I'd go as far to say that they were one of the reasons why it sticks out so much in my mind. I was old enough to understand the world and what was important to me, but I was young enough to live without responsibility and feel truly free. It took me another couple of years to realize how much I missed them. I would still have fun with friends, but I was never as carelessly joyful as I was when I was with them. I would still draw, but without my drawing companion, I couldn't find any joy in it. A void had formed in my life, a void that was shaped like them. Of course, after we had stopped talking, I made new friends, some of which I've grown very close with, but nobody has ever compared to the 5th grade artistic prodigy I cracked jokes with at recess. I was never going to find anybody like them, and I accepted that. The past year has been really rough for me. The looming stress of college applications as well as numerous personal incidents has really impacted my mental health, something which has been considerably good my entire life. On one particularly bad night when I desperately needed human contact, I made the bold decision to message them out of the blue. I still had their number after 4 years. To break the ice, I messaged them one of our old inside jokes. I got a response almost instantly, and we had our first conversation in years. Suddenly, all of my yearning for the past and the feeling that it gave me melted away because I had the memory back that I longed for the most: them. The first night we talked was filled with laughter, so much laughter. I don't think I'll ever forget that night. Reconnecting with them has been one of the greatest decisions I've ever made. Ever since that night, I've been in such high spirits. I never thought I'd say it, but I have my friend back. I don't know where I'd be right now if I never made the decision to message them that night. The topic of “past friends” has always been elusive and misunderstood. We often think the worst of them. We believe that they must want nothing to do with us. We think of ourselves too much, and don't realize that people have the capacity to remember us just as much as we have the capacity to remember them. Your old friends aren't lost forever, especially ones that are only a message away. I guarantee that they'll be nothing but happy that you thought of reaching out to them, and who knows? Maybe they won't be an "old" friend anymore, maybe they'll just be a friend.

Ever since I was a little brat with pigtails, art has always fascinated me. My mother said I would draw on every surface I could find—from the cupboards to the dressers, to the TV screen. If it could be scribbled on, my tiny baby hands, barely able to hold a crayon, were all over it. When I finally moved on to actual paper, I would get lost in the worlds I created, inventing stories for the characters I drew. By middle school, I was the kid in the back of the class, sketching away to my heart's content. I remember one time, a classmate asked what I wanted to be when I grew up. Having no interests besides drawing, I told them I had no idea. They suggested, “What about those people who draw cartoons? You draw a lot, and you're good at it!” That comment stuck with me. When I got home, I went straight to our old Dell computer and looked up "people who draw cartoons," and according to Google, they were called "animators." Maybe it was the satisfaction of someone besides my mom acknowledging my work, or perhaps it was the realization that this could be an actual career, but I became fixated. I imagined myself working at a big animation company, sipping on my drink while doing what I loved most. Little me made it her mission to become an animator one day. I spent countless hours researching and watching tutorials on how to improve my art. My sketch pad was always with me, constantly trying to get better. But there was something missing. Every animation tutorial I watched featured a “drawing tablet.” Seeing this, little me wanted one desperately, but I knew I couldn't ask my mom for it. She was already working two jobs to support me and my three other siblings. I didn't want to burden her any further. So, I found ways to earn the money myself. I offered my drawing services to my classmates in exchange for cash, knocked on neighbors' doors to walk their dogs, and did chores for other people—I did everything I could to raise the money. Every peso I saved felt like a step closer to my dream. I remember the thrill of holding a crisp bill in my hand after walking Mrs. Garcia's dog for a week straight. It felt like victory, and I was convinced that nothing could stop me. My mom noticed my extra energy. She never asked why, but I could see the pride in her eyes every time I showed her the little money I had saved, telling her it was for my future. A couple of weeks went by, and my piggy bank grew heavier. I could barely contain my excitement when I finally had enough to buy the drawing tablet. I remember running to my mom, showing her the money I had saved. Just when I thought I was about to hold the tablet in my hands, life took an unexpected turn. My grandma fell seriously ill, and suddenly, every bit of money we had became crucial. Without hesitation, I offered my savings to help with her medical expenses. My mom was reluctant to accept it, knowing how much I had worked for it, but I insisted. My dream could wait; my grandma's health couldn't. The months that followed were tough. We watched over grandma, praying for her recovery. By some miracle, she got better, and we were all so relieved. Though my dream of owning a drawing tablet seemed further away, my heart was full knowing my Nana was okay and I had helped in a small way. When Christmas rolled around, I didn't expect much. We had spent so much on the hospital bills, I knew there wasn't much left for presents. But on Christmas morning, as we gathered around the tree, my mom handed me a box wrapped in bright red paper. I slowly unwrapped the gift, my hands trembling. I couldn't believe it—inside was the drawing tablet! With tears in my eyes, I looked up at my mom. She smiled and told me she had taken on extra shifts at work to buy it. That moment was pure magic. I hugged my mom tightly, overwhelmed with gratitude. She had always been my biggest supporter, and this was the greatest gift she could have given me. I plugged in the tablet immediately; the feel of the stylus in my hand just felt so right. My imagination had found a new playground. I was practically glued to my tablet, practicing my technique every day. As my art improved, so did my confidence. So, I decided to start sharing my work online, making connections with other artists and like-minded people. High school came and went, and I had my sights set on animation school. Although the road wasn't easy, I was determined. Today, as I sit in my college dorm room, going to my dream school, I often think back to those early days. The determination, the hard work, and the belief that I could make it all seemed like a distant dream. But it was real, and it was mine. I dedicate everything I have achieved and will achieve to my mom. My journey from a little brat with pigtails drawing on cupboards to a budding animator has been filled with challenges and triumphs, and I wouldn't trade it for anything.

In the quiet town of Willowbrook, where winter arrived with a soft blanket of snow, lived a little girl named Lily. Lily was unlike other children her age; she spent most of her days in the hospital, battling a serious illness that had weakened her tiny frame. Her parents, Sarah and Michael, did everything they could to keep her spirits up, but the worry etched deep lines on their faces. As the first snowflakes began to fall one chilly December morning, Lily pressed her small face against the hospital window, her breath fogging the glass. She loved snow—the way it turned the world into a magical wonderland, even if she could only watch it from afar. Sarah sat by Lily's bedside, gently brushing the hair from her daughter's forehead. “Look, Lily,” she whispered, “it's snowing.” Lily's eyes sparkled with delight. “Mommy, can I make a wish on the snow?” Sarah smiled, her heart aching with love and sadness. “Of course, sweetheart. What would you wish for?” Lily thought for a moment, her gaze fixed on the swirling snowflakes outside. “I wish... I wish to go home and play in the snow with you and Daddy.” Tears welled up in Sarah's eyes. She hugged Lily tightly, whispering promises of snowball fights and sleigh rides once she was better. But deep down, Sarah feared they might never leave the hospital. That night, as Sarah and Michael sat by Lily's bedside, the snow continued to fall outside, covering Willowbrook in a silent white blanket. Lily drifted off to sleep, her small hand clutching a snowflake-shaped charm Sarah had brought her earlier that day. In the early hours of the morning, something miraculous happened. Lily's fever broke, and her breathing steadied. Sarah woke with a start, noticing the change in her daughter's condition. She called for the nurse, who rushed in, amazed at the sudden improvement. “We need to run some tests, but this looks promising,” the nurse said, her voice filled with cautious hope. Throughout the day, Lily grew stronger. She ate a little more, her laughter ringing through the hospital room like a tiny bell. Sarah and Michael couldn't believe their eyes—their daughter, who had been so frail just hours ago, was now sitting up in bed, playing with her favorite stuffed animal. “It's a miracle,” Michael whispered, his voice choked with emotion. As the days passed, Lily continued to improve. The doctors were baffled but overjoyed. They ran tests and consulted specialists, but no medical explanation could account for Lily's sudden recovery. One evening, as Sarah and Michael sat by Lily's bedside, the doctor came in with a smile on her face. “I don't know how to explain this,” she began, “but Lily's illness seems to have gone into remission. Her body is responding as if... as if it's healing itself.” Sarah and Michael exchanged tearful glances. They knew in their hearts what had happened—the miracle of the first snow had granted Lily's wish. When Lily was finally discharged from the hospital, the town of Willowbrook celebrated her return with a joyous parade. Lily rode in a decorated sleigh, waving to the townspeople who had prayed for her recovery. Snowflakes fell gently from the sky, a reminder of the miracle that had brought their little girl back to them. Years passed, and Lily grew strong and healthy. Every winter, on the anniversary of that miraculous day, Sarah and Michael would take Lily to the hospital to visit the children who still waited for their own miracles. Lily would sit by their bedsides, holding their hands and whispering stories of snowflakes and wishes. And in the heart of Willowbrook, the miracle of the first snow lived on—a story of hope, love, and the power of a child's pure-hearted wish.

It was my birthday, a day tinged with a bittersweet anticipation of having everyone I loved gathered together. But amidst the joyous celebration, there was an absence that weighed heavily on my heart—Dad, gone and distant. Aware of the strain on my family, I yearned for nothing more than their happiness. So, I adorned a mask of smiles and laughter, hoping to uplift everyone around me. In school, I sought solace in sharing my struggles with peers, hoping to connect and feel less isolated. Some reacted with surprise, others with empathy. However, there were also those who, not fully grasping the weight of my words, said hurtful things that stung, even if unintended. Amidst the mixed reactions, I often felt awkward and embarrassed around those who knew about Dad, internalizing hurtful labels, even around those who reacted with kindness. When I returned home, still processing the impact of those reactions, Mama gently reminded me of her powerful lesson: "Smash the stigma." She handed me a board and a marker, instructing me to write down all the hurtful names the kids at school had called me: fatherless, deadbeat, too quiet, timid. Each word felt like a punch to my gut as I wrote it down, but Mama stood by, her presence a steady source of support. Once the board was filled with those cruel labels, she gave me a hammer. Together, we smashed the board into pieces, the sound of splintering wood echoing the release of pent-up anger and sadness. As the shards scattered, it felt as if the weight of those words was lifted off my shoulders. Then, she handed me a new board and encouraged me to write positive words about myself—words that reflected my true identity. I wrote friendly, joyful, magnetic, and energetic. As I wrote, I began to see myself in a new light. The act of replacing the negative words with positive affirmations was empowering. It was in that moment, surrounded by the remnants of the shattered board and the fresh slate of affirmations, that I felt an unexpected surge of laughter. It wasn't forced or fake; it was a genuine release of suppressed emotions, a cathartic moment that marked the beginning of my healing journey. As I stood amidst the wreckage of shattered perceptions, something unexpected happened. Laughter bubbled up from deep within me, unexpected and liberating. It wasn't a laughter born of denial or pretense, but one that emerged naturally, cleansing the wounds of my hidden emotions. For the first time in a long while, I allowed myself to truly feel—anger, sadness, and eventually, the pure, unadulterated joy of laughter. That laughter became a turning point, a beacon of healing that guided me through the years to come. It wasn't just about masking pain anymore; it was about acknowledging and embracing all emotions, even the uncomfortable ones. Through my journey, I came to understand that while laughter could be a powerful healer, it should never be forced. Each emotion, whether pleasant or painful, held its place in the tapestry of my experiences. Today, as I lead a peer support group, I draw upon those early lessons of smashing stigma and embracing authenticity. I've seen firsthand how sharing our stories and allowing ourselves to feel deeply can transform lives. Laughter, now a symbol of resilience and courage, often emerges in our sessions—not as a mask, but as a genuine expression of shared humanity. It's a reminder that healing isn't linear, and it doesn't always come in quiet moments of reflection but sometimes in the uproarious release of laughter. Through our group, we break down barriers of shame and isolation, encouraging others to confront their traumas with compassion and courage. Just like Mama did for me. Each session is a testament to the power of vulnerability and the healing potential of shared laughter. It's a journey marked by moments of profound connection and understanding, where tears mingle freely with laughter, and every emotion finds its rightful place. In the end, I've come to cherish not just the laughter that springs from joyous moments but also the laughter that emerges from the depths of shared pain and healing. It's a reminder that while not all emotions feel good, they are all necessary. And through it all, I continue to honor Mama's wisdom—to smash the stigma, to embrace authenticity, and to hold space for every emotion, knowing that each contributes to the beautiful complexity of being human.

It is an odd feeling being fifty. Wrinkles are settled in now, and my body feels more flimsy by the day. An elaborate continuum of forgotten memories hangs by a thread. As time passes, my thirst for spontaneity dissipates. My brain is resistant like dusty cogwheels waiting for a spark. Looking around, many strangers I used to know now rest six feet under with an identical bouquet of flowers adorning an $11,000 gravestone. Some of their bodies were taken by the wind, drowned in the deep blue sea, or kept in generational attics. Looking back, I lost many jobs in my late 20s, but thankfully I had a second chance to restart my life. Today is my 50th birthday. A day I never knew would come so soon. Occasionally, I wonder how differently my life would have played out or ponder on old friends. Even at this instant, I can taste the bittersweet memories of nostalgia in my lukewarm cappuccino. Reaching into my pocket, I felt a terrible shock enter my body. Like a pinch too sudden and too painful to even breathe. Slowly I pulled out my hand with purple bruises and a pack of sewing needles. A series of flashbacks entered my mind. My mother had sowed, and her mother sewed, and before her, my great-grandmother sewed, and her mother before that. Funny how bits of my past somehow sneak into my present and future. The pain took me back to when I was a little girl sewing patches of all textures and colors onto my corduroy pants. Clothing was scarce then, and most of my blankets were quilted. Sowing became a part of me and followed me through adolescenthood when I joined the Craft Club at my school. During the second meet-up, I noticed a girl named Lila, with hazelnut eyes and brown hair, in the back of the classroom with a croquet kit on her desk. After introducing myself to her, we became instant friends with the everlasting promise of world domination. Our friendship ended abruptly when she told me she was going to study in Europe. I lost contact with her and thought about her occasionally over the years. Even now, her mystery plagues my mind in times of solitude and reflection. Today is my Birthday. My kids and grandchildren are waiting for me to come home and celebrate a year more. This morning has been my secret escape into the past, but now I must return to the present and finish my cold cappuccino. I reach the table next to me and grab a few napkins to place my needles in. It is an odd feeling being 50, but now I feel comfortable in my flimsy skin. My life has played out the exact way it should have, and now I must keep telling my tale so that my daughter and her daughter, and her daughter will tell it too.

​I find it annoying that most people when they say 'I love fish' feel no need to specify 'dead' and 'fried'. Some people throw in the word 'to' in the middle but that is hardly the point I am trying to make. That one kind of conveys both meanings at the same time. It kills two birds with one arrow. Or two fish with a bait, to be hilarious. Anyway, the conversation Finn and Gill were having wasn't any better than this. "The weather is fine but it cod be better." Gill hummed in a shrill voice, banging her beer can hard on the table. "Oh dolphinately." added Finn as he cackled, slapping his hands on his lap. "Holy Carp! You are krilling me" Gill said from the other side. Her voice had hit the roof of her pitch. She could as well be in an Acapella. "Oh Cod! It cannot get Betta than that!" Finn replied gulping down his can in one go, spitting out half of it in middle of giggles. "Finn, that one was eel-y eel-y good! Oh my god, could this night get any punnier?" Gill replied as she choked herself laughing. The next minute she jumped of the stool, her stomach paining from all the manic energy. She needed to stop. "You need to clam down, buddy" Finn shouted at her as she walked around trying to stop laughing. Her entrails hurt from the vibrating. She was getting a little dizzy. Less from the beer, more from the puns. "I got one more, Gill! It is an FIN-teresting one" Finn lost it too at this one. He was rocking in quivers of laughs, spit falling out, jaws hurting, beer raining around. And Gill joined in, chuckling even harder than she was at the start. "Ok stop now. I can't laugh... Haaaaaaaa..... No really... You are such a pain in the ass!" she said hoola-hooping into another cackle. "Do you mean, pain in the BASS?! HEEEEEEE! GET IT? PAIN IN THE... BASS." More laughter. More spit. More eyes looking at them, two drunkards laughing there bass off. "Ok we need to stop. Otherwise we'll have to get tr-OUT!" Gill said as she slipped and banged her head on the barstool, then got up and continued to laugh in an even stronger fit. "Yeah, yeah, they will probably call the oooo-fish-ials on us." More laughter. "You don't want the cops as your anemonenies" It was finally time that they settled down back into their seats rubbing their bellies. The people around were probably glaring at them. But they were too late to care at this point. "I can't Fink of anemone" Finn said. Gill smiled. The joke was done. It didn't feel that funny anymore. The fading laughter brought back the ichthyologist. "So, this is it. I am leaving tomorrow" she said rubbing her head and throwing her hair back. "Yeah... Tomorrow... You better solve the Freshwater Fish Paradox." She smiled and chuckled a little. "You are making it sound like it's a big deal. It's just a research. To study the patterns in freshwater fishes and extrapolate data to account for their evolution." "Yeah, I don't know, that sure sounds like it's a big deal." "You were saying something earlier? Before the puns?" she said. "Oh, I guess I was. I... I don't really remember now." Silence. "I will tell you if I remember." "Yeah." The waiter walked in, his face knotted in disgust. The puddles of beer around the floor were enough to trigger his mood from bad to foul. But as he reached the table, he managed to pull the most artificial fake smile. "Here's your prawns, sir! Anything else?" "No that would be all!" The sight of prawns brought a smile back on their faces. "You know, when you first told me that you love fish?" Another giggle. "Yeah I do." "Right. I had thought you liked... Eating fish." Yet another giggle. The blushing kind. "I know." "Okay, you know what. I... I like you." The blood in his face was hot. Looking in her eyes, he could see the same. The smiling lips flattened into surprise. It felt like an infinity. In-fin-ity. Stop it. It's not the time for puns. She halted there, completely still for a moment. And then slowly, the smile grew back. And it grew larger. "So... You want me to be your Gill-friend?"

Growing up, Sarah always dreamed of making a difference in the world. She was the kind of person who was always looking for ways to help others, whether it was volunteering at the local food bank or organizing a fundraiser for a deserving cause. Despite facing numerous challenges and setbacks throughout her life, Sarah never let anything stand in the way of her dreams. She worked hard, studying late into the night and taking on multiple jobs to pay her way through college. After earning her degree, Sarah dedicated herself to a career in public service. She spent years working on the front lines of social justice, fighting to make the world a better place for all people. Through her tireless efforts, Sarah was able to bring about real change in her community. She helped to establish programs that provided meals to the hungry, housing for the homeless, and education for underserved children. But Sarah's greatest accomplishment came when she was chosen to lead a team of international aid workers on a mission to bring medical care and supplies to a remote village in Africa. It was there that she saw firsthand the transformative power of compassion and generosity, and she returned home with a renewed sense of purpose and determination. Today, Sarah is an inspiration to all who know her. She continues to work tirelessly to make the world a better place, and her efforts have touched the lives of countless people around the globe. Despite all that she has achieved, Sarah remains humble and grateful, always remembering that it is by working together that we can create a brighter future for all. Sarah's work did not go unnoticed, and she soon found herself in high demand as a speaker and advocate for social justice issues. She traveled the world, sharing her story and inspiring others to take action and make a difference in their own communities. As she spoke to groups large and small, Sarah's message was always the same: that each and every one of us has the power to create positive change in the world. She encouraged her listeners to follow their passions and pursue their dreams, no matter how big or small they may seem. Sarah's own dream was to establish a nonprofit organization that would provide ongoing support and resources to those in need. And with the help of a dedicated team of volunteers and supporters, she was able to do just that. The organization, called "Heart of Gold," quickly became known for its innovative programs and its commitment to making a lasting impact on the lives of those it served. Whether it was providing disaster relief to communities in need or offering job training and mentorship to young people, Heart of Gold was making a difference in countless lives. And through it all, Sarah remained at the heart of the organization, always leading with compassion, kindness, and a fierce determination to make the world a better place. As she looks back on all that she has accomplished, Sarah knows that her journey has just begun. There is still so much work to be done, and she is more committed than ever to making a difference in the world. But no matter what the future may hold, Sarah knows that she has already made a lasting impact, and for that, she is truly grateful. As the years went by, Sarah's work continued to grow and expand, touching the lives of even more people around the world. She was constantly amazed by the generosity and compassion of those who supported Heart of Gold, and she knew that it was because of their efforts that the organization was able to achieve so much. But Sarah also knew that there was still so much more to be done, and she was determined to keep pushing forward. She worked tirelessly, never taking a day off and always striving to find new and innovative ways to make a difference. And her hard work paid off. Heart of Gold continued to grow and thrive, and Sarah was able to see the positive impact of her efforts in the lives of the people she served. She knew that she was making a real difference in the world, and that was all the motivation she needed to keep going. As Sarah approached her 50th birthday, she knew that she had accomplished so much, but she also knew that there was still so much more work to be done. She had no plans to slow down, and she was as passionate and dedicated as ever to the cause of helping others. Looking back on her journey, Sarah knew that she had been blessed with many gifts and opportunities. But she also knew that it was her own hard work and determination that had brought her to where she was today. And she was grateful for every challenge and every setback, knowing that they had only made her stronger and more resilient. Sarah's story is one of hope and inspiration, and it is a reminder to us all that with hard work and determination, anything is possible. No matter what challenges we may face, we have the power to make a difference in the world, and to create a brighter and more compassionate future for all.

Jake and Fiona had been inseparable as kids. They were the best of friends and spent every moment they could together. They lived on the same street and went to the same school, and even ended up in the same class for most of their elementary and middle school years. When they were little, they loved to play dress up and have tea parties in the park, climb trees, and run through the sprinklers on hot summer days. As they got older, they started to explore their interests and passions more, and while they still had a lot in common, they also started to drift apart a bit. Fiona became really interested in art and spent most of her time drawing and painting, while Jake developed a love for sports and spent hours practicing and playing with his friends. They still saw each other often and would hang out when they could, but it wasn't quite the same as it used to be. When high school came around, they ended up in different schools and saw each other even less. They stayed in touch, but their friendship wasn't as strong as it had been. After high school, Jake and Fiona both decided to go to the same college, but they ended up in different dorms and had very different schedules. They ran into each other from time to time, but it was usually just a quick hello in passing. One day, they ended up in the same study group for a difficult class they were both taking. At first, it was a little awkward since they hadn't spent much time together in years, but as they started working together, they realized how much they still had in common. They started to hang out more outside of class and their friendship picked up right where it had left off. As they spent more time together, they started to realize just how much they had missed each other's company. They laughed and talked about everything, just like they used to when they were kids. They even started to do some of the same things they used to do when they were younger, like having picnics in the park and going on adventures. Before they knew it, Jake and Fiona were the best of friends again, just like they had been all those years ago. They were each other's support system and were always there for each other, through the good times and the tough ones. As they graduated college and started their adult lives, they knew that they would always be there for each other. They had come full circle, from being the best of friends as kids to drifting apart and finding their way back to each other as adults. They were grateful for the time they had spent apart, as it had helped them grow and discover who they were as individuals, but they were even more grateful to have each other in their lives again. They were a team, and they knew that they would always have each other's backs, no matter what life threw their way.

When I was younger, I would wake up before the rest of my family and run down the dirt road that winded in front of my family farm to a lavender field. I walked, I sat, and I walked back. Dawn broke early halfway across the world. I woke to a bright pre-summer sky at 6 o'clock in the morning. Looking back, it was a sun that was harsher than New York's — hotter and less forgiving. It was freer in the Chinese countryside, no midday traffic droning down concrete streets or towering skyscrapers stopping me from hopping towards an endless sky. The meadow was one and a half miles away. On the very last morning before I had to leave for America, my legs ran me to my cousin's room instead of out the door at the break of dawn. I made a beeline for her window and threw her curtains apart, the light attacking every last inch of her room with an intense morning glow. “Jin-Yi! Get up! Let's go somewhere!” I shouted, jumping onto her bed. Her eyes flew open, about to burst with curiosity. “Where?” “Let's go!” was all the information I gave up before pulling her out of bed and pushing her towards the doorway. I had her chasing me down the stairs and out the door in less than ten minutes. And if she had not been fully awake before, the blinding hello of the endless wheat fields and eccentric sky forced her into full consciousness. A slight draft sneaked past us and I breathed in the fresh air as it pressed against my skin. Jin-Yi gaped at the sunkissed tint of the morning. Her eyes bulged as she stepped past the security of the house, as if soaking in the scene of a world she had never before seen. I broke into a sprint and a moment later, she followed. The road under us clapped to the beat of our clumsy race, a round of applause encouraging us as we ran. By the time we were doubled over, panting, we ran into our family cows. We watched them while trying to catch our breath. They were slowly gnawing at the grass, eating early breakfasts without a care in the world. I made eye contact with one, and she held my stare while finishing a mouthful of grass. She eventually grew bored of me and started strolling in the direction of the lavender field. Jin-Yi and I walked alongside her. “Let's call her Olivia,” Jin-Yi suggested. “Olivia?” It was a foreign name for a Chinese cow. “Yes,” she responded. “An American name for an American girl.” She smiled at me before launching into another short sprint. As the three of us traveled, we tried to stick together. Olivia helped herself as we went along, munching on the edible blanket of grass at her feet. Twice, there were irresistibly tasty patches and she would stop to revel in the taste. Although she had invaded our party of two, we couldn't find it in our hearts to leave her behind so we waited for her to finish, even though we knew she would be fine. Calm flatness was all that surrounded us. No man-made structures disturbed the crisp horizon-like border between the ground and the sky. Time trickled by like water leaking out of a broken faucet unnoticed. After we had walked far enough, the grass grew wilder, taller and darker. Having journeyed the path more times than I could remember, I charged into the grass in front of Olivia and threw my arms out to my side, drawing a cross with my body to protect the visible sea of lavender behind me. “You can't walk into the lavender field, Olivia. Go back.” Olivia stared me down with blank eyes, chewing slowly. She turned and walked away, her tail swaying side-to-side behind her, as if mocking me. I turned to my cousin, “You can't let her in the field. She'll eat the lavenders. Remember that.” She nodded her understanding. With an elated smile, I shouted “Then let's go!” before barreling towards the meadow. I buried myself in the middle of the lavenders, collapsing onto the ground and letting the flowers tickle my face as I lay on my back. A laugh bubbled in my throat and escaped to the same effect as a bird song in a serene forest. My cousin danced around me, throwing flowers in the air. Clouds had begun to form, blocking out the sun so that all I saw as I stared up were fluffy white clusters being strung across the sky. Bathing in the warm breeze, I let out a sigh and let the scent of fresh petals hug me. That same day, I packed my bags, and got into my parents' car, squishing my face against the window and trying to melt into the disappearing countryside on our way to the airport — a journey West. There was a simple freedom in those excursions that I took while the world was still sleeping, prancing down a blank road, seemingly leading nowhere. I never forgot about that lavender field, or any of the walks there. That purple heaven and the path lying before it belongs to Jin-Yi now. She wakes up at 6, she walks with Olivia where I walked alone. She sits, and she walks back.