“How dare you insult me like this?” Thomas St. Clair yelled in the middle of the busy restaurant. He was perched on a velvet-upholstered chair. His towering red pompadour was beautiful and intimidating like a peacock spreading its feathers. Gin and tonic dripped from his chin after he involuntarily spat out the drink, showering the Pan-Seared Sea Bass and Truffle Risotto. A woman sat directly across the table. She leaned forward and cupped her hands to her mouth, trying to screen her words from curious onlookers. “What is wrong with you?” she demanded. “I just want the banana cream pie.” Thomas brought his fist down on the table. The crash of dinnerware was akin to a car accident; everyone in the vicinity turned to view the wreckage. “Bananas be damned,” Thomas hollered. “Those yellow sacks of garbage need to go back to whatever country they came from. They’re all the same, soft and juiceless.” The growing murmurs from restaurant patrons were like applause to Thomas. He stood up, reveling in the spotlight, and continued, “Apples are the far superior fruit. As heir to the St. Clair Cider Company, you’ve proven unworthy with these banana shenanigans. We’re through.” A black, gloopy mixture of salt water and mascara streamed down the woman’s cheeks as she sprinted towards the front door. Thomas stopped short of bowing to his audience but smiled and returned to his Sea Bass. An older gentleman with slicked-back hair and a perfectly tailored suit took the empty seat. He spoke in a solemn tone, “Do my ears deceive me? Did you break up with someone over pie?”

Thomas’s smile stretched wider. “Chauncey, this is one hell of a fish you make here.” “Every week you bring a new woman to my restaurant,” Chauncey continued. “Every week they leave here crying. It’s not good for business, what’s the matter with you?” Thomas laughed and arrogance radiated off him like heat waves from a barbecue. “I’m a very wealthy man Chauncey, and highly respected in the beverage industry. I demand nothing less than perfection from any lady I date.” “I don’t appreciate you disrupting my customers.” “Relax. For the trouble, add a ‘K’ to my bill.” “A ‘kay’?” Chauncey asked. “Yeah! One K. One grand. One thousand bucks, whatever you want to call it. I'm good for it." Chauncey made a come-here motion with his finger and began to whisper, “I'll admit you have spent a lot of money in my restaurant, so I’ll let you in on a little secret. I’m currently in possession of a magic genie. You may talk to him… BUT ONLY if you promise to wish for a woman who satisfies all your needs.” Without hesitation, Thomas pushed his plate away, wiped his mouth, and nodded in acceptance. Chauncey pointed to a dimly lit hallway lined with silk plants. “Goes past the washrooms, third door on the left. The passcode is 3909 .” Thomas punched the numbers onto the electronic keypad. Beeps were followed by the low drone of a motor retracting a deadbolt. The door was solid metal and heavy, like an old bank vault. It opened to a bright, windowless room. White floor tiles. White walls. White ceiling panels. Thomas felt like he was inside a marshmallow. In the back corner was a baby lamb nestled on a small pile of hay. The animal shook off bits of straw from its fleece and trotted towards Thomas, its tail wagging like a dog’s. Having never been around barnyard animals, Thomas took a defensive stance, “Are you the magic genie?” The lamb began to brush up against Thomas’s leg. He tried to shoo away the fluffball by shaking it, but the lamb became agitated and emitted a horrific maaaaa sound before bending over and sticking its rear end in the air. Thomas was knocked backward by an explosion of blue light and a hurricane-like wind. Through a cloud of smoke emerged a floating cross-legged man. He wore tight jean shorts and a beer belly spilled out of a Led Zeppelin t-shirt. The figure brushed long greasy black hair from his eyes and boomed, “I am the genie of the lamb.” “The lamb?” Thomas questioned. “Shouldn’t it be lamp?” After a brief pause, the genie lowered its head and talked in a laid-back stoner voice, “I kinda cheated my way through Genie School. You pretty much have to when ya got Visual Dyslexia. Lamp. Lamb. They both look the same on paper. But a big difference when it comes to smell. I may have accidentally picked an untraditional genie dwelling, but I’m still authorized to grant you one wish.” “Can you use those genie powers to find me a gentle, caring wife?” Thomas asked. “One metal pairing knife coming up.” “WHAT,” Thomas yelled. “I said caring wife.” “Busted! I’m also a tad deaf, so you’re gonna have to speak up and please be specific.” Thomas began to formulate the perfect woman in his mind, cycling through the annoying flaws that caused previous break-ups. One woman was taller than him, one walked too fast, one ate like the Cookie Monster, one put mustard on French fries, one smelled like the pine tree air freshener from his car, and there was the one named Isabella. The Hispanic beauty was nearly perfect, but sharing the same name as his mother, Thomas found it difficult to dirty talk or scream her name in bed. Thomas locked eyes with the genie and proclaimed in a loud, clear voice. “I wish for the perfect woman who will love and adore me. I want her to be from South America. I want her to be petite and slim with smooth skin and delicious curves. I want her to be rich, loaded with K. And she must be sweet on the inside and have appeal on the outside.” The genie’s fingers moved to his temples, and his eyes shut tight in deep concentration. His head began to shake violently. Then a ding, reminiscent of a toaster oven bell, echoed through the room. “Your wish has been granted,” the genie said and opened his eyes. “She’s waiting for you at the restaurant table.” The genie turned transparent, shrunk, and returned to his home inside the lambs' rear end. From across the dining room, Thomas saw two empty chairs at the table. He twisted and strained his neck as he navigated the busy restaurant floor looking for a woman that matched his description. Nothing. He plopped into his chair disappointed. “Is that you Thomas?” said a woman’s voice with a Spanish accent. “I’ve missed you so much.” Thomas perked up and scanned his surroundings, but there was no sign of a woman. However, movement on the other side of the table caught his eye. Sitting on a velvet seat cushion was a banana. A banana with oversized cartoonish eyes that were smoky and supported lashes that reached for the ceiling. Pouty lips of ruby red. Stubby human-like arms and legs protruded from its yellow skin. The chest area was slightly peeled, showing off lumps of soft white flesh like some Red-Light district whore.

“Let’s get out of here,” the banana purred. “I want to be inside you.” “What the hell is this?” Thomas said. “Where’s my curvy South American sweetie?” The banana licked a finger and ran it down the yellow curve of its skin, then pointed to a sticker that clearly said Ecuador. “My name is Chiquita.” Violent thoughts began to invade Thomas’s mind. A blender whirling the banana to a creamy death. A frying pan slammed down on its yellow jacket and pulp oozing out like a popped zit. Instead of implicating himself in a bizarre mash and dash, Thomas excused himself from the table, headed for the third door on the left, and furiously shook the lamb. Its tail lifted into the air, and like steam from a kettle, a bulky figure began to materialize. “Sorry dude, one wish per person,” the genie said. “For further assistance, may I direct you to a shooting star, birthday candle, or that fountain in the middle of the mall.” Thomas leaned into the genie's face, like a baseball manager arguing with an umpire. “A banana! I wish for the perfect woman, and you give me a talking banana?” The genie wiped specks of saliva off his face, then put on a pair of half-rim reading glasses and removed a two-foot-long till receipt from his jean shorts. He began to read, “One wish issued to St. Clair, Thomas. A woman with the following qualities. Loves and adores him. Petite, slim, delicious, curves, from South America, and rich in K—which, we all know is the periodic table symbol for potassium. Sweet on the inside and has a peel.” “Not a peel you idiot. Appeal, as in sex appeal. How am I supposed to love and take care of a banana?” With a puff of smoke, a laptop appeared in the genie’s hand and his fingers rapidly tapped the keys. “Says here you can wrap her up in aluminum foil. Also, keep her away from ethylene gas. And, if you’re into some freaky bedroom stuff, you can hang her from a hook.” ****** Inside Thomas's apartment, he sat on the couch in silence, the banana beside him. Thomas counted 382 ticks from the grandfather clock before he swiveled toward the window at the distant wailing of an ambulance. Chiquita spoke, “I saw the way you looked at the chocolate cake on that dessert cart. You’re in love with her, aren’t you? Is it because that hussy-bitch has a cream-filled centre?” “I’m not in love with any food,” Thomas snapped. “Especially dirt-cheap fruit that wasn’t grown in this country. Bananas are evil.” Thomas froze and his eyes wandered off as he began to unlock a memory buried deep in his mind. Thomas was seven years old exploring the family apple orchard one evening. The sputtering of a small engine wasn’t out of the ordinary, it was the subsequent aggressive buzzing that fanned the flames of terror. A rhythmic roaring danced off the trees, forcing robins and sparrows to flee the area. In the distance, Thomas could see his father, dressed in a banana costume, wine bottle in one hand and a running chainsaw in the other. He chanted, “See my peel, feel the fright, this banana will get you tonight.” His father chased Thomas yelling anti-banana propaganda, stopping only to take swigs out of the bottle. The red wine ran down his mouth and across the costume, giving the appearance of a wild animal feasting on a fresh kill. Thomas hid underneath a rusted Ford pickup truck until the chainsaw ran out of gas sometime after midnight. “What are you thinking about?” Chiquita asked. “I’ve never been this close to a banana before,” Thomas replied. “I don’t understand, you’re not some bloodthirsty monster hellbent on killing me. In fact, you’re not so different from an apple. You might be different colors on the outside, but on the inside, white flesh and fructose run through your veins.” Thomas shook his head in shame and lowered his defensive wall. “How could I be so blind? Those silly stories about horrible yellow creatures stealing our money and our jobs. It was all my family talked about. Did you come from a large family, Chiquita?” “Yes, there was a bunch. But I recently lost my grandpa to crown rot.” Thomas slowly replied, “My grandpa recently died of a blood clot.” Their eyes connected and an electric charge filled the room. Chiquita’s breath quickened and in a husky voice declared, “I may be green around the edges but want you to manhandle me like a starving monkey.” Her peel began to moisten, like a mirror after a hot shower. She didn’t have time to wipe away the mist before Thomas wrapped his fingers around her and smooth yellow skin slid in and out of his mouth like a popsicle. The steady rhythm caused Chiquita to moan in ecstasy and a warm tropical aroma filled the air. Thomas ripped off his shirt exposing his gorilla-like chest hair. Chiquita’s pull tab quivered at the sight. Thomas began to explore every inch of her peel. His fingers glided down the shaft, then he laid her on the couch and turned her into a banana split. ****** The next several days were the most joyous in Thomas’s life. Dinners, movies, and cuddling in a large bowl with various other fruits. He didn’t care about being seen with a banana, Thomas didn’t notice red or green or yellow or orange, he saw what was on the inside, a sweet sugary pulp. It was a Friday morning; Chiquita had felt unwell the night before and went to bed early. Thomas, not wanting to disturb her, slept on the couch a left the apartment early to get coffee. When he returned and pushed open the bedroom door, a pungent odor struck his nostrils. A sweet fermentation hung in the air. It was the smell of overripe fruit. Chiquita laid on top of the covers, her bright yellow skin had darkened and now looked like a school bus that drove through a puddle of ink. The sickly black spots made it difficult to know if she was firm or mush. Thomas dropped his coffee and ran to her side. “I don’t have much time,” Chiquita said weakly. “Don’t leave me,” Thomas cried. “I love you. I’m a better person with you.” “Promise you’ll cremate me. Can you do that Thomas? Mix me with some flour and sugar and butter and eggs. Bake at 350 degrees for an hour.” Hot tears rolled down Thomas’s face as the last word escaped her mouth, followed by her final breath. He fulfilled the request and baked a fantastic banana bread. Thomas scattered the crumbs around the park at sunrise. Then, feeling lost, he aimlessly roamed the city until he found himself on a busy downtown street, near the restaurant he had first met Chiquita. A familiar sound pulled Thomas from his somber state. “Bananas,” said a woman with a Spanish accent. “Who wants to get bananas?” Outside of a smoothie shop stood a petite, slim woman wearing a curvy banana costume. Thomas immediately approached her and introduced himself. “Wonderful to meet you,” she said. “My name is Bonita. I just moved here from Ecuador.”


The nervous energy buzzing in the air is unmistakable as the students pace around the auditorium, their eyes darting to the empty bulletin board. It is casting day. The atmosphere is charged with hope and anxiety, everyone waiting for the director to walk in and put up the cast list of “Romeo and Juliet.”

Jake tries to hide his nerves behind a mask of casual confidence. However, bouncing on the balls of his feet is a clear giveaway. His friends, always the cynics, stand beside him and tease him. "You really think you’ll get Romeo?" asks Max, raising an eyebrow. "And that it'll somehow make Lily fall for you?" Jake shrugs, a small smile playing on his lips. "Why not? We both had really good auditions, and this could be my only real shot at getting with her. Think of all the practices we’d spend holding hands and staring into each other’s eyes…" His voice trails off, his thoughts wandering into a dream world where Jake and Lily are dating.

Max and the others continue to laugh at him, trying to explain how stupid he sounds. “Lily is way out of your league. She would nev—”

“Shut up! She could walk behind you any second.” Jake said, motioning around him.

His eyes flicker to the auditorium doors just as they swing open, and there she is—Lily. In Jake’s eyes, she's walking down the hall like a scene from a movie, her hair flowing as if caught by an invisible wind (where did it come from?), her stride confident, almost regal. She looks every bit the leading lady, ready to receive her role as Juliet. Lily joins her friends, and Jake can’t help but eavesdrop. "I’m obviously the choice for Juliet," she says, her voice ringing with certainty. "There's no one else who even stands a chance."

Her friends nod in agreement, their faces mirroring her confidence. As Lily continues to talk, everyone in the hallway starts moving aside. The director, Mr. Hastings, strides down the hall with the cast list in hand. He reaches the bulletin board, and with a flourish, pins the paper up. He smiles smugly and shouts, “Good luck to all!” and struts away with an energy that could only follow with chaos.

A wave of students crashes toward the board as they push forward to see their roles. The voices grow louder, a cacophony of excitement and nerves. Jake grows increasingly anxious, feeling the intensity of the moment that could make or break his year.

A shriek cuts through the noise. It’s Lily. Her face is a storm of emotions as she stomps off, the sound of her platform wedges echoing down the hall. Jake, breathing heavily, finally pushes his way to the front and his eyes scan the list.

"Romeo - Jake."

Before he can even react, Jake is high-fived and slapped on the back in approval. The sounds of congratulations fade away as his eyes move to the line just below his name. "Juliet - Isabella." Jake’s heart sinks. He forces a smile, trying to look excited and happy as his friends cheer around him. Deep down, disappointment gnaws at him. He had hoped being Romeo would bring him closer to Lily, but now she’s cast as Juliet’s understudy. His whole plan is ruined. Did he even want to be Romeo if he didn’t have his Juliet? As the crowd begins to disperse, he wonders, "Who is Isabella?" His mind drifts back, vaguely recalling a shy girl he showed around on her first day of school. He barely remembers her, but he was about to get to know her very well. As the initial shock wears off, Jake takes a deep breath. The show must go on, and he had a role to play. -------------- Chattering excitement fills the room as students slowly arrive in the auditorium for the first rehearsal. Actors are warming up on stage, laughing with their friends, and meeting the rest of the cast. Jake stays off to the side, distractedly flipping through his new script.

This is it. Jake thinks to himself. It’s the first rehearsal of Romeo and Juliet, and the perfect time to talk to Lily. After a few minutes of back and forth in his head, Jake takes a deep breath and looks up at the stage. He steels himself and walks up the steps of the stage towards Lily.

There she stands, laughing with her friends, but to Jake it’s as if no one else is around. Platform wedges showing off her defined calves, golden hoop earrings glistening from her ears, and her shining, waist length hair blowing in the wind. (Seriously, where is that wind coming from?)

Jake’s heart pounds as he approaches her, forgetting everything he rehearsed to say. “H-hey Lily,” he stammers. “I was wondering if we could—” Before he could finish, he feels a gentle tap on his shoulder. “Hi Jake,” says Isabella softly but with enthusiasm. “I’m so excited to work with you and be your co-star. Maybe we could go over our scenes together? You know, to work on our chemistry and stuff.”

Jake glances over his shoulder at Lily, her left eyebrow now raised and her smile slightly faded. Jake wants to say no, thinking this would ruin his chance with Lily, but he has a responsibility as the lead. “Sure, sounds like a good idea,” he says reluctantly.

Isabella’s face lights up, and she leads him to a quiet corner of the stage. They sit down and open their scripts, about to begin their first scene together. However, they are quickly interrupted by Mr. Hastings calling the cast to center stage. Jake quickly joins the forming circle, sliding into the open spot next to Lily. He shoots her a crooked smile, and tries to start a friendly conversation. “Looks like we’re all set for an amazing show, huh.”

“Yeah, whatever.” Lily responds coldly, her tone edged with irritation. Jake, hurt, looks away in a shrug. I ruined it. Now I’ll never have a chance with her , Jake thinks to himself, forgetting to listen to the director's opening words.

“I SAID, Jake, time to dive into the first scene,” shouted Mr. Hastings, already showing his short temper. They are flying through the first few scenes and it’s time for Romeo and Juliet to take the stage together. Jake and Isabella take their places, facing each other on the stage. As they deliver their lines, it becomes painfully clear that something is off. Their interactions are awkward, their movements are stiff. The moment they are supposed to hold hands is ruined by Jake's recoil to Isabella’s sweaty palm.

“STOP,” barks Mr. Hastings. “This is supposed to be a moment of connection, not repulsion. From the top!” Jake sighs in frustration, and pushes through the scene. However, the awkwardness lingers, and his mind keeps wandering to Lily. After another hour of criticism from Mr. Hastings, the whole cast is on edge, and the initial excitement has fizzled into tension.

Rehearsal finishes and everyone starts to leave. Jake stands alone on the stage, feeling the weight of the practice pressing down on him. He just watches as Lily gathers her things and leaves without a word. Isabella lingers around the auditorium, casting hopeful glances Jake’s way.

Jake sighs, rubbing his temples. This is going to be a lot more complicated than I thought. -------------- The auditorium is starting to feel like a second home for the cast, as opening night is around the corner. The walls backstage are covered in posters, sketches, and set designs, showcasing all the hard work that has been put into the set. The play itself has also begun to take shape. The awkward interactions between Jake and Isabella become more natural, and, at moments, almost magical. The chemistry they display on stage breathes new life into their performance, and their energy is undeniable.

Jake starts to look forward to rehearsals after school, not just because of his character, but to spend more time with Isabella. His feelings for her are growing. Her initial shyness starts to melt away, revealing a passionate, witty, and charming girl. They spend hours together, on and off stage, running lines and exploring their characters, only to find they have a genuine connection.

This afternoon during rehearsal, Isabella and Jake perform their scene that had caused them trouble from the beginning. Now, when the time comes for their hands to touch, the whole room can feel the passionate energy. After the scene, Mr. Hastings claps his hands slowly together and says, “Bravo! Now where do you suppose this beautiful chemistry that blossomed tonight came from?” Isabella beams, barely containing her excitement. “Well,” she says looking up at Jake, her eyes sparkling. “We went out on a date to get to know each other better.”

Jake feels his stomach flip when she says “date.” Annoyed at how fast she’s moving, he realizes he doesn’t like her as much as he previously thought. He chuckles nervously, shaking his head. “It wasn’t really a date.” The room grows tense and awkward, whispers spreading around the auditorium. Isabella’s face falls, her smile fading and cheeks turning pink. “Come on, Jake. It was kind of a date.”

Jake feels the heat rise in his cheeks, and in frustration he says a bit too loudly, “No, it wasn’t, Isabella. We were just rehearsing.” The room turns silent. The cast and crew members exchange wide eyes as they watch this interaction. Isabella’s expression hardens, her frustration growing as she takes a step closer to Jake. “Why are you being like this?” She says through her teeth.

“Because this isn’t just about us.” The words tumble out of Jake faster than he can process. “This is about the play, and how you even got the lead in the first place.” “What are you talking about?” Isabella sneers, in a much too defensive tone. “I’m talking about how you bribed Mr. Hastings into getting the lead! All I want to know is why,” says Jake. All eyes turn to Mr. Hastings, whose face now resembles a beet. He opens his mouth to speak, but no words come out. Tears well up in Isabella’s eyes, and she has no idea what to do with herself.

“Is this true?” Someone whispers, breaking the heavy silence.

“I just wanted to get close to you,” Isabella chokes through her tears. “I didn’t mean for it to get out of hand. I really really like you, Jake.” “I can’t do this anymore!” Mr. Hastings cries, as the students' heads turn quickly back to him. “I am sick and tired of the lies. The truth is…I am a collector.”

Confused looks spread across the students’ faces.

“I collect antique stage props from Broadway. When I see one, I can’t help myself. And when Isabella came to me, a one of a kind Phantom of the Opera mask was being sold for a price I could not afford on my own. Don’t look at me like that, I know it was a mistake and I deeply apologize.”

Mr. Hastings looks around the room one last time, watching as the cast snickers and whispers to each other. He feels pathetic. All at once, he gathers his things and storms out of the auditorium, papers flying behind him as he makes his dramatic exit. The room erupts into chaos, no voice can be heard over another. Accusations are flying, sounds of panic echo. Jake stands frozen in the center of it all, unable to process all of his emotions.

Jake storms off the stage and out the front door of the school. He needs fresh air to process everything that’s happened. The cool outside air washes over him, but does little to clear the turmoil in his head. He thinks about the irony of him trying out for a play just to get a girl, only for another girl to manipulate the show to get closer to him.

He sits on the concrete, his face between his knees. They are so close to opening night, and they are actually getting better. At this point, he doesn’t even know if there will be a play. -------------- The next day at rehearsal, the atmosphere is thick with uncertainty. Students walk around the room, distractedly running lines, and glancing nervously at the clock. Mr. Hastings is nowhere to be found, and speculations are swirling around the stage with what might happen next.

Jake sits alone on the edge of the stage, legs dangling, absentmindedly flipping through his script.

His thoughts are a tangled mess of anger and confusion as he sorts out last night’s revelations and tries to figure out how to move forward. The auditorium door creaks open, and all heads turn toward the entrance. A tall, middle aged woman, with sharp eyes and a confident smile strides in.

“Good morning everyone.” She begins, her voice steady and authoritative. “I’m Mrs. Thompson, and from here on out, I will be directing your production.” Murmurs ripple throughout the room. Jake exchanges a glance with Lily, causing butterflies to appear in his stomach. Isabella stands off in the corner, eyes downcast and face pale. She regrets even showing up, but there is something she has to do. In true director form, Mrs. Thompson claps her hands together loudly. “All right, all right. There are a few things we must discuss before we get started, so pay attention.”

Isabella steps forward, her voice trembling. “Before we start, I need to say something to all of you. I’m sorry. I realize now the hurt I caused because of my selfish goals. It was not fair and I understand if you guys are mad.” The cast threw sympathetic glances her way. “That is why I have decided to step down as Juliet, and let someone who truly deserves this opportunity have a chance.” There is a moment of stunned silence before Mrs. Thompson adds, “Thank you Isabella. We appreciate your acknowledgement. That was very mature. Now team, let's begin. Lily, I understand that you were the understudy for the role of Juliet. That deems you perfect in my eyes to fill this role. Do you think you can handle it?” “Yes, ma’am. Thank you for this chance!” Lily exclaims, determination shining in her eyes. The cast proceeds to go through warmups and prepare for the first run-through with the new changes.

Lily pulls Jake aside during warmups to a quieter side of the stage. “Hey,” she says with a genuine expression on her face. “I’ve been acting like a brat. I’m sorry. I was mad at the casting and took it out on you when it wasn’t your fault. Can we start over?” “Thanks Lily, this means a lot,” says Jake with a warm smile. “I’m Jake, and I am so excited we get to co-star in this play.” Lily giggles, throwing her head back. “Nice to meet you, I’m Lily. And we are going to rock this play.” When it comes time for their first scene together, Jake feels a mix of nerves and anticipation for how it will go over. Their hands touch for the first time, in the play and in real life, and there is a burst of passion and sparks that no one can deny. Their hands meet, not with clammy awkwardness, but with true connection and excitement. Their fingers intertwine perfectly, and their eyes lock, acknowledging all of their feelings for each other in a single look. Mrs. Thompson is on the edge of her seat in the audience, a huge smile spreading across her face. “That…was… IT, my darlings. Keep this up and we will be ready in no time.” Jake and Lily continue the scene, their movements fluid, and every line delivered with heartfelt emotion. It feels right, like this was how the show was always meant to be. Every touch, every glance is filled with a love and affection that could only be true. During this run-through, they are not acting. As the scene comes to an end, the rest of the cast erupts into applause, creating a unity and excitement that has not been felt in weeks.

Lily turns to Jake, overflowing with joy. “Wow, that was amazing. I don’t even know how to describe that, other than… right.” Jake nods, still feeling the rush of the moment. “Do you want to hang out after rehearsal?” Lily stands still. “Like a date?” Jake takes her hand and says, “Yes. Like a date.” She smiles shyly and nods her head yes. Rehearsal finishes stronger than it started. Everyone embraces the energy put forth by Jake and Lily’s connection, and experiences the best run-through yet of “Romeo and Juliet.” The journey to opening night is back on track, and the cast moves forward with a sense of excitement and solidarity, ready to bring their story to life on stage.

Jake and Lily walk out of the auditorium that day, hand in hand, ready to embrace the rest of their journey together.


 THAT GIRL FROM ZAMBIA I had a friend. Only one, growing up. She was my everything…

This was at a time when I didn't exactly have a reputation. I wasn't exceptionally good looking. I was dark, overweight by 15kgs, and tall. I was a whole feet taller than all those dumb bimbos that came to school in the name of eduction everyday. Their hair left out, skirts hiked up. Yet they had the nerve to call me out for being ugly. What didn't help was my inability to laugh at the names they called me- Shitnam, Gagnam, Shags… I complained to my teachers for a lack of a better comeback, but this only made it worse with me earning the tag of a "crybaby", "whiner" "weiner" (the last one doesn't even make sense). Anyway, coming back to the point. A new girl came to our school from Zambia a few years ago. She was pretty, fair, had long hair and was chatty. Everyone seemed to like her the moment they met her, probably because she had so much to talk about. She had these bubblegum flavoured lollies, that she'd share with everyone, constantly saying "try it, it's from Zambia ". Like I get you're from a foreign country, now get off your high horse. I thought of her as a show off and tried to ask a few people about her too, but they all thought she was lovely. I wasn't a fan of her, till she asked me if I wanted to join her as a partner for our school dance competition. This is the most prestigious event of the school, which all the popular people were a part of and it had been my longest dream to be in it. But I never found a group to be a part of, and I didn't need people to throw tomatoes at me for dancing alone. So I'd watch my bullies perform for over 3 consecutive years, simmering with anger as they enjoyed the popularity they didn't deserve, till this "girl from Zambia'' showed a newfound interest in me. Maybe dancing with her would boost my reputation in school too.

We practised for over a month. It was mostly her telling me what to do, while I danced along with her. When we performed together on D-day, she received all the praise for performing so gracefully, though I was just happy to be on stage. We eventually came 3rd. WOW… from never performing on stage to coming 3rd, was a massive achievement for me. So much that I framed my certificate in my bedroom. It was surprising she even performed with me. She could lose her reputation, she could have no friends because of me, she would be a loner just like me. She hung out with me occasionally, but had her own group of "cool" friends. She was polite to me when she met me and even stopped by to chat, even though her friends gave me the stink eye, as they waited to get her attention.

The dance competition came again next year and she performed with me again, choreographed the whole sequence and this time we came second. But she again received praise for it all. It was like I never existed to anyone but her. I was invisible, before and after the competition, but her fame spread from our grade to the whole school. Why did she perform with me, if she had better gangs to hang out with? Did she feel sorry for me? Did she think it was easy to get me to do what she wants? She wasn't toxic though. She wasn't rude either. She was like this 'nice narcissist'. She was sweet to everyone, yet got what she wanted, though I stayed exactly where I was.

Slowly my whole attention revolved around why she wanted to be around me..  Was I the antidote to her vanity? Is this a build up to something bigger she needed from me? I confronted her once, unable to keep my insecurity within me any longer. To which she gave me a kind smile, like she didn't know what I was talking about, like I was stupid for even asking, like this rapport we shared was completely normal- her ghosting me through the year but being a friend only in the one important month of that year.

The third time she came to me again, for the dance competition, I had a strong urge to say no, but it would be me who's losing, as she'd find someone else to dance with, while I'd miss out. So I said yes, but decided to set the ground rules. I would arrange the music and steps for the dance and this time she would follow. She didn't resist, which I was surprised by, in all honesty. I practiced real hard that year, tried to lose some weight to look pretty, and scavenged through the deep recesses of my brain to make our performance stand out and look creative. She kept quiet through the entire process and never complained once. On the final day of our performance, people were spellbound. They applauded so loudly we couldn't hear anything. Then everyone came running to her to appreciate how amazing the whole act was. It was me who compiled the whole routine, yet she earned the credit! She tried explaining to people that it was actually me, but noone would hear her. Everyone thought she was being modest. I was enraged at the lack of recognition, despite being awarded the winner.

After that year she left our school and moved elsewhere. I had no one to perform with again and I became a spectator for toxic people, once more. Till today I question myself, was I this girl's friend or was she mine? Did she even look at me as her friend, because we never did anything that normal friends did, like gossip about crushes, go to the movies, fight with each other, study together. She gave me the confidence of being able to perform in front of 500 people in school, yet left me feeling inadequate at the same time. I forgot about my love for dancing and got entangled in her love (or lack of love) for me...


“ Stare at him for a while and you’ll see it, I swear to God… ” I recall these joking words from earlier, from a chaotic lunchtime with my sister, her friends, and a couple other upper-classmen, all spinning yarns about the odd, creepy, perverted, or occasionally interesting teachers and members of the administrative staff that haunted the high school. It was always something of a treat to hear these older students share their stories and opinions on classes and teachers, because it gave me the chance to analyze which hallways I should avoid, in addition to the classes. My sister’s best friend was this girl, Amelia, who Mia had been friends with since pre-school. Amelia was the sort of girl who got straight As through freshman year, but then caught the sophomore zing that made her start calling herself Amy and wearing button-down crop-tops. Mia, the future rocket scientist, sort of looked at her best friend in a condescending light these days, even saying, in her own elegant words, “yeah...Amy’s a whore but I love her.” In any case, Amy’s vivacious personality led her into some questionable (but interesting) interactions with various teachers. And it seemed her painted wide-eyed stories were a daily affair at the lunch table near the snack line.  Once she told us about Mr. Beaubien.

“Listen...the guy was packing, I kid you not.” she whispered, but the sort of whispering that isn’t really whispering at all, and in fact, attracts more attention than regular talking would. Though I suppose this could be the intent. “He’s bald, right? I’ll tell you, that guy’s...thing...looks just like his head.” “You’re disgusting.” Mia said, unwrapping the wax paper around her salami sandwich. It was Friday, which meant she’d go a little crazy and eat something other than lean turkey. Same for me, though I was a bit more of a fun-lover (I mean, a freshman dude sitting with junior chicks), so I’d eat salami three, maybe even four times a week. Speaking of unhealthy meat, Amy told us another story about the resident police officer, Officer Davis (“OD to all the cool kids”, he’d say). This story was actually whispered, and was so disgusting that none of us would believe it in a million years.

“You’re a fucking liar, Amy.” this farmer boy who liked to look up skirts said, cracking his can of Mountain Dew. Everyone else silently agreed, and Amy looked offended. If there was one thing that girl hated, it was being called a liar.

“A liar, huh?” she begged. “I’ll just have to prove it, then.” Two days later, OD was fired, and two months after that, he sat in a packed courthouse while a disturbing video played for members of the jury. No one ever called dear Amy a liar again.

But there appeared to be one bane of this girl’s existence. Perhaps, one nut she couldn’t crack: Mr. Atkinson.

“Look at the guy…” she said to us, huddled up, as the six foot tall, brown-haired, blue-eyed Algebra II teacher made his way down the lunch line. “Tell me he’s not a fucking alien or something. Stare at him for a while and you’ll see it...” It wouldn’t be hard to believe; this man was the most generic human being alive. It was almost fascinating how boring he was. His love for rocks led him to a YouTube channel with forty subscribers, where he posted rock-cleaning and hunting videos. He wore the same khakis and green flannel shirt every day, and always followed the exact same symmetric trail from the door to his desk when he entered the classroom. Apparently, he’d invested in Apple back in 2000 and often brought it up for math lessons. And his love of juggling was almost sensual. There was something about this man’s behavior...almost alien-like, robotic, so generic it was as if the aliens put all the settings on “default” when they sent their spy down to Earth. In any case, his plainness and devotion to a life devoid of intrigue meant that Amy would not be applying her mouth to a single phallus of his (no matter how hard she fought for it).

On the day we watched him, I agreed with her.

“It’s like the aliens set all his settings on ‘default’.” I said.

She laughed, told me I was hilarious.

This brief second of affirmation from an attractive female stayed with me all the way to sixth period, Algebra II, where I decided to see if this man could crack a smile, even once. It was a couple minutes before class, and I’d arrived early. For introverts such as myself, the confidence for telling a joke comes from arriving in a timely and prepared fashion, and considering your words for an extended period of time. At last, when I believed there was just the right amount of people in the room (enough to get a good laugh, but not so many that it would be too loud), I said, “Mr. Atkinson.” He said, “Mr. Cocciarelli.” I said, “So my sister and I were observing you at lunch, and we decided you seem like, if aliens were to send down a robot spy, the default setting for ‘human’.” A couple kids chuckled. Mr. Atkinson sort of looked at me funny. “You mean…” “Well, is there any truth to the fact that you might be a robot?” “Yeah, tell us!” Cam Kraus said, which brought forth a couple more snickers. Mr. Atkinson looked at the class with a little smile and stood up taller, as if to tell another awkward joke of his. But then, suddenly, his expression changed, and he turned his head to face me. He was smiling just a little, but his eyes had no life in them, and when his lips parted, I heard this incredibly high pitched whistle that made me cover my ears. The wretched sound had that crumbling effect that I’d learned about in music lessons, where the pitch becomes so distorted that it begins to shred your eardrums.

Then, it stopped.

Everyone was laughing, including Mr. Atkinson, who was now making his way to the whiteboard to begin the lesson. The bell was ringing, and a couple kids nearby were looking at me funny.

After class, I followed Cam Kraus out the door.

“My wife thinks I’m a machine, too…” he muttered, snickering. “Jesus Christ…” “What?”

Cam grinned at me, but his eyebrows narrowed. “You didn’t hear Mr. A? He said, ‘my wife thinks I’m a machine, too, if you know what I mean…’. The balls of a teacher to say that in class, dude.” “Yeah…” I agreed, slowing down as the flood of classmates surged past me. As the chorus of voices poured over me, I heard several people quoting Mr. A's joke, and continuing to laugh about it, saying he’d surely get in trouble if they didn’t keep their mouths shut. When the flood passed, leaving me alone in the hall, I turned back toward the math room at the end of the hall, where Mr. Atkinson always stood during passing time. There he was, arms crossed, leaning against the wall casually. I stared at his face, waiting for a reaction, a wink, a smirk...but he just stared back. I swear to God, for a second, his eyes were all white.


Carla sat with her head resting against the window of the train, her right hand under her chin – supporting her head – and her left, holding a worn copy of Call Me By Your Name . Her mind, wandering in and out of reality, may have forgotten her destination and considered that she was travelling to or from university (as she had done so often the last three years), had it have not been for her large, red suitcase that was pressed up against her knees. She was travelling from her home on London’s outskirts, into the centre of the city – to the airport. Over and over, she questioned herself as to whether she had her passport, her boarding pass and the euros that her dad had slid into her jacket pocket as they had parted ways outside the front of her house, whilst the taxi-driver had lifted the suitcase as if it were an empty cardboard box. There were not too many people in the carriage, except for an American couple that were discussing their travels thus far. Their suitcases were much larger than Carla’s. She was unsure as to whether the uneasy feeling in her stomach was due to anxiety, excitement or travel sickness. To distract herself, she reopened her book once more. Aciman’s novel had become an object of romanticisation for Carla, envisioning the Italian architecture, the sweet soundtrack that would accompany Elio’s mindless daydreaming, the innocence of falling in love. She dreamed of the indulgent breakfasts; her eyes not fully opening until the rich espresso had touched her lips. She dreamed of the afternoon Aperitivo, the slightly bitter liqueur and refreshing orange of Aperol and ice, alongside soft, fluffy focaccia and olives exploding with sharp flavour. She would feel the rays on her skin of the serene sun, a similar shade to her spritz, as though an artist had used the remanence of the paint on his paintbrush to complete the sky. She would gaze at the mountains from her balcony, contemplating the intricacy that could create such a picturesque view from miles away. She considered her strolls through cobbled streets, spooning creamy gelato of whichever flavour she fancied: strawberry, mango, plum or biscuit, wondering if this taste had been made to satisfy her particular desire of that day. And then would follow evenings of fairy-lights and soft jazz music, a glass of red wine that tasted of fresh grapes and the deep red colour lingering on her lips. Perhaps she would be accompanied by people she would meet along the way, like the group of four or five misfit friends from a rom-com, who drink and debate and criticise each other light-heartedly, laughing and loving each other endlessly even so. But she could not picture what these people may look like, and so instead, was content with the idea of sitting alone. Her admiration for the music of the band would result in them asking for her requests, pleasing the intimate crowd with a rendition of ‘That’s Amore’. Like Oliver, she would roam around on her pale blue bike with the wooden basket on the front, which would hold a novel, a poetry anthology and a small, lined notebook. Each fundamental and with its own specific purpose. The novel: to transport her from the Tuscan coffee shop to a murder mystery on the sea, a haunted cottage in England or a train carriage to Edinburgh, alongside a trio of magical school-children. The novel would act as her escapism, although remembering, every two pages or so, to sip on her cappuccino, as, really, she did not want to escape where she was at that moment in time. The anthology would be for short bursts of beauty, romance and imagination, food for thought . Perhaps when sat by some trees playing with the grass underneath her, or by the sea watching the waves travel in and out as they so desired, or on a faded wooden bench, which had seated many an old person that day, sheltering from the warm sun rays or resting their legs to light their cigarette. At last – the notebook. Its pocketsize yellow pages were filled with her most intrusive thoughts, her favourite gelaterias and casual Italian vocabulary that she thought may come in useful. But, most importantly, anything that would take her mind back to that particular moment, so as to withhold the memory long after its brief lifetime. She couldn’t tell if she was dreaming, or if she could already smell the soft tobacco that, for some reason, smelled different than in England.

Her hands now both placed on her lap, clasped together, she watched out of the train window at the trees, carefully graffitied buildings and the rows of clean laundry, hung out of windows and on thin string. Clothes of white linen, loose trousers, dresses and delicate lingerie; she imagined the smell of those white candles, labelled ‘fresh cotton’ that you could buy on the shelves at home. She could visualise the clothing to effortlessly drape over the olive shoulders of an Italian mum, sun-kissed from the summer afternoons and her hair thrown into a rough bun to allow a breeze, if ever there was one, to tickle the back of her neck. The apartments were mostly painted a medium-yellow or rust with green shutters and vibrant Vespas parked outside that were like splodges of colour splattered against the train window. Carla wanted one for herself. She would drive wherever she pleased, no destination in mind, feeling powerful and feminine and free . She was travelling from Pisa, where the plane had landed, to Viareggio – a small, seaside town on the coast of Tuscany. It would be her first time experiencing this side of Italy with beaches and mountains and day-to-day life, working as an Au Pair for a family with two small children. Carla had specifically chosen this family as their profile had said that they were seeking a girl who wanted to play and have fun with the children, and she thought that they sounded like a real, loving family. The overhead announcement told Carla that she was arriving at her stop. She struggled with her suitcase, her cheeks flushing pink as she did so. All around her she could hear snippets of conversations, some seeming heated until they would flash a marvellous smile or a belly-laugh, suggesting only passion in their tone, instead. The speed at which they spoke seemed infinitely faster than in England. The platforms were large and full of people, even though it was a Tuesday afternoon, and she hovered around, trying to locate the uscita . Unwillingly, Carla flashbacked to the train station in Milano, where she had travelled for her birthday a few months prior, with her (now ex) boyfriend. Milan was not like the Italy that she had known. Only an hour or so away from Crema, where Elio and Oliver would have lay in the green fields and confessed their love for one another, yet it was filled with shops and high-fashion and keyrings for sale. It was beautiful, nevertheless, she just felt herself still longing for that feeling in her heart that she knew she would find here. She always knew that it felt like another home. Perhaps in her past life she had lived there as a baker or a travel writer or a librarian. Perhaps a dark-haired man, wearing thinly-framed glasses and a white shirt, which shone against his skin, had wandered into her library, admiring all of the untouched books with tattered, imageless covers. He maybe became a regular, and she would have nicknamed him secchione (bookworm). Eventually he would invite her to his book group, a weekly meeting in a little café, only she would come to find that this group consisted of him and her only. Naturally, they would fall in love and have a magnificent wedding in Puglia or Sicily, naming their children Giulietta and, perhaps, Elio. Carla smiled and simultaneously wiped a tear from her face, realising that she wasn’t in love anymore. A few days had passed and Carla was settling in with her host family. She was a strangely introverted person, in some senses, although with an admirable ability to speak to others. Sometimes, she felt too overwhelmed to even contact her friends when she was at home and had grown accustomed to relying on herself since she had come out of a long-term relationship. Although curious about the world with bright ideas and a sensitivity that allowed her to love with no exceptions, Carla often preferred the simplicity of being alone, avoiding any situation that could cause her to question her self-worth. She couldn’t tell if this was a preference or a coping mechanism. Having battled with her mental health for quite some time, Carla had lost the inner-child in her, and would, as of lately, find comfort in colouring books, teddy bears and anything pink or yellow. She had started to dress in baggy clothes, watch football, drink beer and dismiss the female gender as though she did not belong to them, subconsciously to become a replica of her boyfriend. In this process, she had lost herself. She did not know who she was anymore. The little girl that she was taking care of in Italy was almost exactly like how Carla’s mum had described her to be when she was younger: a princess with an attitude, who loved to dress-up and do hair and makeup, singing and dancing and dreaming of growing up. Imagining herself like this was so strange, it almost seemed wrong . To once have been so carefree and bursting with imagination to now running away from her life, attempting to heal. For whatever unknown reason, Carla had believed that she would heal here. She was able to feel emotions about Italy that she could not feel about anything else. She had been concerned that her expectations would not be met, subsequently leading her back down the path of abandonment and self-destruction. If the one thing that she had anticipated for her whole life had been all for nothing, she almost couldn’t fathom what this would have meant for her. She would have had to have returned home, questioning why she had ever acted on her silly, insignificant dreams. Perhaps it had only worked for Oliver because he fell in love, and that seems to be all anyone cares about. As the days and months passed, Carla spent mornings walking along the beach, chatting to strangers as and when she could and sitting in nature, reading anything and everything. She found herself wanting to learn and wanting to be curious again. And even on days that were profoundly difficult, Carla would embrace the overwhelming emotions, welcoming them with open arms, knowing that she was beginning to feel things once again. It was a challenge, no doubt. Being thrown into the structured lifestyle of a family, completely different to her own. It was difficult to be happy, and Carla finally began to understand why people had said being happy was often a choice, not a feeling. But choosing to be happy, for the children, meant that she was choosing to be happy for herself. With the little girl, Carla would do crafts, go on walks to find leaves and sticks, finger-paint and read fairy-tales, and she wondered why she had not done these things for herself every day. Why had she let herself grow up, settle and spend her days worrying about the opinions of those who had, also, simply lost their sense of self? In a way, her expectations had not been met. They had completely disappeared, transformed – she didn’t know what. But she felt entirely new. She did not long for perfect days, she did not long for unconditional happiness, she did not long to seek love until it had found her itself. Instead, she longed to learn about herself, she longed to question everything as she had done as a child, and she appreciated every obstacle and every new emotion that she experienced along the way. This was her now, all her. It was Friday morning and Carla had woken to help the family with breakfast and take the children to school. She reached for a skirt and a yellow tank-top, which she paired with yellow Converses. She had bought these a few months ago but had never worn them in England, as she thought they were too bright. For breakfast, they all shared some cake that they had made together the previous night: chocolate with hundreds-and-thousands sprinkled sporadically over the top like confetti. Once she was alone, Carla decided to walk along the docks. The October morning air was fresh and foggy, and she was surprised to see how different the beach looked at this time, completely empty, except for the birds. From where she sat on the rocks, the boats were stacked next to each other behind her, the sea on her left and the mountains directly in front of her view. The red and yellow buildings along the strip where the sand finished, were like hand-crafted dolls’ houses, in comparison to the backdrop of the soft, white-washed mountains which were ethereally two-dimensional. They were put there with a purpose as though projected or imprinted on a canvas, along with the intricately carved rocks and fine grains of milky-tea coloured sand. How lucky was she to experience such beauty? She pictured elves and pixies, button-nosed shoe-makers with magic porridge pots inside the cottages that looked ever-so-tiny on the landscape. There must be rainbows with bottomless pots of gold and daffodil fields, talking trees and red-topped mushrooms with white spots, pumpkins and freshly baked apple pies, shared by the Grandma Elf in the yellow bungalow. Surely, she thought, there couldn’t possibly be humans living up there. They were far too small from where she sat. She envied the birds that could fly up and overlook this village as and when they pleased, wondering if she would ever find her wings, too.


It had been twenty-four years since she’d last seen it, but the place looked exactly the same.  Her eyes locked onto the familiar face across the dining room.  After all this time he’d changed as little as the façade of his award-winning restaurant.  Only slightly gray around the edges of his face with deepened crows feet and those lovable laugh lines.  The cleft in his chin was still as defined.  His eyes just as sparkling as always, even at this distance.

She practiced the opening line of her speech one more time as she slowly made her way toward the bar.  She tightened her grip on her purse strap to prevent her fingers from trembling any worse than they were already.  It wasn’t going to be easy, but she felt obligated—no, compelled.  That wasn’t right either.  She felt captive, enslaved to the desire to speak to him this time.

She sat near the opposite end of the bar from him, waiting for him to notice her, hoping he would recognize her.  Had she changed as little as he had?  She looked up at the mirror across from her, between the bottles and glasses.  The fragments she saw of herself told a story too long to relate over casual drinks.  That was why she’d practiced her speech so ardently.  He had to know certain truths about what had happened twenty-four years ago before he was able to jump to conclusions and assume the worst.  Who was she kidding?  He’d spent the last twenty-four years drawing the conclusion he assumed was true.  She’d already done the unthinkable.  That’s why she was here.

The restaurant was crowded, as usual, or so she’d heard and read over the last two decades.  He was a smart business man, an incredible chef, and a superlative host.  She’d never wondered at his success through the years as she kept tabs on him.

He was nearing her end of the counter, reaching underneath for a napkin as he spoke his first words to her.  “Good evening, ma’am.  Have you been to ‘For the Love of Cod’ before?”  He glanced at her before grabbing an empty glass, but it didn’t cause a reaction.

“Um, not inside.”

He froze for a moment before slowly standing erect, right in front of her.  He took a deep breath, and she thought she saw a hint of mist in his eyes as they met hers.

“I didn’t see you at first.  I knew your voice.  You look wonderful, Vi.  Barely changed.”  He was making his way around the end of the bar toward her.

She stood from her stool, and they embraced.  It wasn’t stiff.  It was warm.  It was friendly.  It was home.

“I was thinking the same of you, Bret.”

He stood back from her and examined her features from head to toe.  “Violet Turner.”  He shook his head and scoffed softly.  “I truly thought I’d never see you again.”

She half smiled.  “I’ve stood outside the front door of this place a dozen times.”

He looked hurt.

“Bret, I have—”

His attention was drawn away from her.  “Just a sec, Vi.  Mike!  Mike, cover me for a ten, will you?”

Violet looked down the counter at the bartender who gave Bret a nod.  He took her by the arm and motioned to the dining area.  “Come on, I’ll get us a table.”

“But Bret, I have to—”

He motioned to the hostess.  “Cheri, I’m taking this one for ten, okay?”

“Fine by me, but you know how Kristen gets about her tables.”

“If she makes one peep you get me.”  He winked at her.

Cheri smiled and shook her head as she disappeared through the crowd, back to her post.

Bret pulled a chair out for Violet.  They weren’t very secluded for what she had to say, but it would have to do.  She couldn’t wait anymore.  She opened her mouth to speak, but he obviously didn’t want to hear it.

“What are you doing back in Boston?  Last I heard you were in California.  San Diego, wasn’t it?”

“Uh, San Jose, actually, but—”

“Oh, wow.  Like, from the song?”

“Yeah, I guess.  Bret, I need to tell you—”

“I’d like to vacation in California sometime.  You recommend it?”

“Well—yes, but—vacation?”  She was losing control before she even got started.  “Bret, I didn’t come here to make small talk with you.”

Bret sighed and blinked at her.  “Why did you come here then, Vi?”

“I came to apologize.”

“Apologize?  After all these years?”

“Yes.  And to explain—”

“Then you’re wasting your time.  I haven’t been waiting twenty-four years for an apology or an explanation.”  He rose from the table and walked back in the direction of the bar.

She followed close at his heels. “What do you mean ‘waiting?’” He walked beyond the bar through an impact traffic door that led to the kitchen.  Violet was temporarily distracted by how impressed she was at the respect he commanded from his staff as he barked out some orders while walking toward his office.

She followed him still as he passed his office and walked out the back door into a dimly lit alley.

“Ah, so this is what’s it’s come to then.  Murdering me with one of your kitchen knives and ditching me in your dumpster?”  She laughed.

Bret did not laugh.  He turned toward her with his eyes on fire.  “This isn’t a joke, Vi!  I was doing just fine.  I was making it work.  I’ve been making it work for twenty-four years.  It’s been a quarter of a century!  Why do you suddenly want to apologize and explain things now?  I’ve long buried my pain and you can’t—you don’t have a right to it anymore.”

His intensity almost frightened her, but not enough to make her forget her purpose.  The opportunity to make her rehearsed speech was long gone.  Their conversation hadn’t unfolded at all like she’d planned.  She would have to go off cuff now, straight from her heart.

“Bret, I’ve wanted to apologize for years.  Ever since that night.  I just didn’t know how.”

He rolled his eyes.  “You finally learned?”

“Stop it!  You don’t know what I went though!”

He pointed a flexed finger at her and then at himself.  “You don’t know what I went through, Vi!”

She wouldn’t be hindered.  “When we lost Gabriella—”.

She could see every muscle in his neck tense as he spit his words.  “You lost Gabriella.  I lost my daughter and my wife.”

“I didn’t know what to do!”

“Neither did I, but I knew enough not to blame you and leave.”

“I never blamed you.”

“Not in words, but what was I supposed to think when you left?”

Violet blinked slowly, causing a few tears to spill over.  “Oh, Bret, I’m sorry.”

Bret sighed heavily and turned his back to her.  She wondered if he was hiding his own tears.  “Well, it’s water under the bridge.”  She heard him sniffle.  “And no use—no sense rehashing everything now.”

“We were so young, Bret.  I was only eighteen!  I know you were twenty-two, but even still!  Eighteen’s young to get married anyway, but a stillbirth the very next year?  And you’d just opened your restaurant.  I was alone every night.  It was just too much, and I—” She saw him hold up his hand toward her.  “Please stop.  I don’t want to relive it.  Once was enough.”  She watched his head roll back and he looked toward the dark sky.  “Though it’s not like I don’t relive it in my head almost everyday anyway.”

Violet took a step toward him.  She spoke as tenderly as she could.  “Bret?”  She took more steps toward him until she was an arm’s length away.  “Bret, what did you mean when you said you hadn’t been waiting twenty-four years for an apology?”  She gently rested her hand on his arm.  “What have you been waiting for?”

Bret slowly turned to face her.  His eyes were red and wet to match hers.  He stared into her eyes for a long time and then instinctively reached down and pulled his wallet chain from his pocket.  There was a full key ring on the end of it, and he fiddled with it until there was a single gold band around the end of his index finger.  He held it in her direction.

Violet gasped softly as she examined the trinket.  “Bret, I left after we lost Gabriella because I didn’t know what to do or how to cope with the deep pain of the loss I was feeling.  I thought I needed to rediscover myself or reinvent myself to get the hurt out of me, but it never went away.  When I finally realized how wrong I was, and that I should’ve clung to you and leaned on you, and you could’ve done the same to me—we could’ve helped each other.  When I finally realized that, I was too scared to come back.  I was too scared to find out that you were probably happily moved on with—”

Was that compassion she saw in his eyes?

“As time passed, just, more time passed until it was so long I didn’t know if I ever could come back.  It took a while, but eventually I started coming home.  Every year I’ve made more and more trips back to try to speak to you, and each time I got closer and closer, but tonight was the first time I’ve had enough gumption to walk through the door.  It took me twenty-four years, three months, and sixteen days.”  She reached under the neckline of her sweater and pulled out the pendant of her necklace.  It was a small gold band.  “I haven’t been waiting twenty-four years for your forgiveness.”

Bret took her hand in his and closed it around the wedding ring that hung from her neck.  He bent his forehead down to meet hers, and they stood in silence until Mike came looking for him.

It wasn’t easy.  It wasn’t like magic.  It wasn’t even quite like riding a bicycle.  Love is hard, and it takes time and commitment.  But it was a start.  They’d healed separately, but now they needed to heal together.  She’d walked a lonely path the last twenty-four years, and her leaving had forced him to do the same.  They had a long road still to travel, but they could do it together, knowing that their love for each other had never wavered.  Pride and fear had been her enemies until now, but she’d finally come home for good, and that was all that mattered.


Rat-a-tap-tap. “Psst!”

I look up from my homework towards the source of the noise: my window.     “Psst!” The stranger at the window began to knock loudly.     Squinting my eyes, I could barely make out a silhouette of a head in the dark night outside. Why did I keep my windows open even if I knew I wasn’t going to sleep soon?     “Shhh! I’m coming but stop making such a ruckus! I’m not supposed to be awake!” Slowly and cautiously, I made my way from my desk over to the window on the other side of my room. As I was walking over to the window, I caught a glimpse of the time: 12:18 AM. Dang, I thought. What could anyone want from me at this hour? Maybe someone caught me being awake. My first instinct at that thought was to quickly shut the window and go to sleep. But another part of me suggested that there could be someone in serious trouble, and it nagged me to go and at least check up on that person. “Can you please hurry up? I’m trying to keep myself from falling, I have the tiniest grip on your windowsill and no place to keep my legs since I’m TWO STORIES off the ground!” It sounded like a male voice, and not like my father’s, so it probably wasn’t someone who had caught me. Picking up my pace, I cranked my window further open and took the hands of the person outside. I immediately noticed that they were sweaty and callused, implying that either this guy had spent a lot of effort trying to me, or was in trouble and was attempting to escape. Either way, I knew that I had to help him. The first thing though, would be to get him out of the position he was in right now. I just wasn’t sure whether to bring him inside our house or sneak out and talk to him on the driveway. “Thank goodness you came! I was not sure how much longer I could hold on. I need you to help me. Come outside and follow me.” The tone of his voice seemed more of an order than a request. I was scared to disobey him, mostly because he seemed older than me. That wasn’t unlikely because I was only in 6 th grade and this stranger’s tone seemed gruffer and deeper, sounding like they had already matured. Hesitantly, I replied. “Ummm, sure. I guess I’ll go with you.” In my head, I had planned to ask him some questions and trying to get an idea of where I was going to be taken, but my tongue tied when it was the opportunity to do so. Before I could say anything else, he wriggled his sweaty hands out of my grip (which wasn’t too hard because they were very hard to hold onto) and landed on the grass along the ground adjacent to my house. “You gonna come? I haven’t got all night here,” I heard him say. I could see him just enough through the scarce light our outdoor light provided. I cranked my window open as far as it could go so that I could slide my body through it. I wasn’t that big, so by putting my legs through and sitting on the windowsill, I was able to jump down. I guess I forgot to think about my landing until it was too late though. I must have gotten too much momentum in my jump, because I landed further than he did and ended up on the concrete. Fortunately, I didn’t seem to have any injuries except for a slightly skimmed palm and knee. He came over to me and pulled me up onto my feet. That’s when I got a good look at him. He didn’t seem to be much older than I did, and he had gorgeous blue eyes and the perfect shade of brown hair. He seemed to be very athletic and sincere. Everyone always told me that looks don’t matter, but I knew that I probably wouldn’t be as willing to help someone if they didn’t look as cute as he did. Somehow, he must’ve thought I looked cute too. “I love your dazzling green eyes and your smile. After this is over, we should hang out sometime. That is, if you want to. By the way, you can call me Andy.” Oh. My. God. I could not believe he said that. “Of course, Andy! Oh, I almost forgot, my name is Ali,” I replied, my cheeks blushing. I was so glad it was nighttime, and he couldn’t see my cheeks. “I would love to hang out with you. But first, let me help you with what you need help with.” Suddenly, he started chuckling and muttered something under his breath. It sounded something similar to “ aww, you’re so cute. I kind of feel bad for you.” Even though I was confused on what he meant, I shook it off and started walking out. That’s when it hit me. I was sneaking out. For the first time. My parents weren’t the strictest, but they were definitely not people to let it slide if they found out that their “perfect” daughter was sneaking out, talking to a stranger, and staying up for hours past her bedtime.     I must have gotten very wrapped up in my own thoughts, because I abruptly heard a small van pull up to our driveway. I felt an arm rest on my shoulder, and I looked up to see it was Andy smiling down at me.     But it wasn’t the friendly, caring smile I had seen earlier. This smile had a tone of mischief as though Andy were going to do something evil. Creeped out, I ducked my shoulder out from underneath him and tried to get some distance between me, but before I could, he grabbed my hand and squeezed it. I tried wriggling away from him, but he used the magical soothing voice of his to calm me down and convince me that everything was okay.     “Come with me. I’ll lead you to where I need help. Okay?”     “Alright. Will we be back soon though?”     “I’m not sure. I might have to steal you, you’re super cute,” he replied, winking.     I giggled and let him guide me away from my house and onto the sidewalk. We headed towards the van. I assumed that the van must be a coincidence and he would be taking us past it.     However, we stopped right in front of the black van. The doors were automatic and slid open. These two big men with giant beards stepped out of the car. They appeared as though they were drunk and aggressive. I looked up at Andy, silently pleading to him out of fear. Maybe he would know about all this. But maybe he was as unsuspecting as I was.     That thought was quickly squashed though as Andy let go of my hand, and in return, each of the big men took one of my hands. They laughed.     “You made a good choice, son. She’ll be perfect for this.” With that, they gave Andy a pat on his back, easily lifted me into the van, hopped in behind me, and closed the door.     I looked at Andy’s face once more, hoping he knew what was going on and would be able to save us. Then realized that it was all just makeup. He wasn’t as pretty as I thought he was. He wasn’t as young as I thought he was. He wasn’t at all who I thought he was.     And worst of all, he didn’t really need help. But now I really did.


I was lying in bed, just spinning through social media to pass the time before my eyes got heavy, when she popped up on my feed as someone 'suggested for me'. My stomach dropped and a frog jumped into my throat. I sat up and clicked on the image of her smiling holding a handsome little boy. She was even more stunning than before. I scrolled through her page, recognizing friends and family members who I had met when we dated back in high school. Her dark brown hair still spiraled down her back. She traded in her jerseys and air forces for blouses and heels  Her adorable smile still accented by the ever so slight chip in her front tooth that she sustained as a child when her younger sister hit her in the face while she was drinking from a Coke bottle. She was still petite with a slight figure. The only real differences was she was more mature and she had a son. I scrolled through her timeline and her photos. A few scattered images of a man were

peppered in her albums, but for the most part it was just her, her son and her family. With each picture, my heart slammed against my chest, faster and faster.

I hovered over the “add” button, contemplating the results. Would she remember me? Was she married? Was she happy in her relationship? Would my friend request upend both of our lives? I hesitated for a few minutes still scrolling her page before I pressed it.

I put the phone down and stared at the ceiling. I couldn’t sleep as I remembered my time with her.

I met her in the mall cafeteria our senior year.

She walked past me wearing khaki colored Glo jeans. I nearly broke my neck watching her walk from the lunch line to a table in the back. We made brief eye contact and she shied away bashfully but not before letting our gaze hang in the air. I turned to my friend and said, “That’s my future wife.”

He laughed and dared me to go speak to her. I was scared but he refused to let me remain a coward. He popped out of his seat and ran towards her. I gave chase to encourage him to return to our seats so that I could daydream about her from a safe distance. He wasn’t having that, and reached her table before I could say anything. I arrived seconds later but the conversation was already in full swing.

“Yeah, this is my boy, Tito. Hes’ new.” He said as I nervously approached.

I gave an awkward smile and a lame wave.

The girls giggled at the table. She looked down and her friend spoke. “This is Missy.”

Her wave was as lame as mine.

My friend hit me on the arm, encouraging me to speak up. I mustered up the courage and said in a breathy voice, “Hey, how are you.” “Good”, She replied simply.

Her friends giggled again. My friend rolled his eyes at my shyness. He prodded me.

“You want to get coffee sometime?” I blurted out, not even a coffee fan at the time.

“Sure.”

We exchanged numbers and my friend and I walked away. He was laughing so hard he stumbled as we made our way around the tables to exit the cafeteria. I, on the other hand, was floating. Our courtship didn’t last long but for those few months, I felt fireworks like never before, or after for that matter. Countless nights in that short period were spent awake for the entire night talking on the phone about our wild families, our goals for the future and how happy we were. After a few weeks, being able to find some alone time we made love. Maybe I was a bit overzealous because immediately following, as I held her in my arms I said, “I am going to marry you.”

Her face dropped, but she politely smiled and playfully asked me to stop. At the time I thought it was because she was embarrassed. We were young and inexperienced in love but I knew what I knew. I have always believed that through transparency, relationships are built the strongest, despite what some may think. However, I didn’t realize that sometimes, people use words to manipulate and to take advantage. I thought my truth would make her happy, knowing that I loved her so much. I assumed that spilling my heart out, would encourage her to share hers. After that night, she started to ignore my texts. My calls would go to voicemail and she avoided me. It wasn’t until months later, I heard she received some well meaning advice from her friends. They told her that I couldn’t possibly know that kind of love and that my intentions must be to manipulate her. I scared her away.

We didn’t speak or see each other for almost ten years after. She moved away, attending a private University, receiving her Masters degree in accounting and currently working at a small but prestigious firm. She had a young son but she appeared to be doing really well for herself. I, on the other hand, got caught up in a different world. One of music, gangs, drugs and women. The clean cut young man she had spent some of her early days with, was now a tattooed artist with two children and a lifestyle like a rap video.

Yet ,to my surprise, a few days later, I woke up and I had a new Facebook friend. I smiled with delight as I opened up the messenger app. I contemplated sending her a message. Before I could lose the nerve, I started typing and deleting on my keyboard, ultimately landing on something that played out as awkwardly as our first interaction: Hey! How are you? Hope all is well. So good to see you.

I let it marinade in the box before I sent it hoping it would somehow getting better during the delay. Then I hit send. Within seconds a bubble appeared with the waiting ellipses. My palms moistened, my throat tightened and my heartbeat nearly doubled.

Hey! I’m good. It’s so good to hear from you. I hope you’re good!

The conversation continued for the next few days as she filled me in on all of the details in between the information I had already gathered. She was engaged to her son's father but their relationship had been flat for years. They spent no time together and had been engaged for two years with no date in sight. She had been with him since we separated. I told her about my life. How my best friend was murdered and how it had impacted my life and direction for a long time. I told her about my children and where I was with things. We reminisced about how different we were but how much we still carried remnants of the teenagers we were from so long ago.

Eventually, I mustered up the courage to invite her out for a coffee, which she gladly accepted. There were two hours between us so we chose a day when her work brought her onto my side of Boston. We picked a small coffee shop within walking distance of her job. I arrived 20 minutes early, with shot nerves, sweaty armpits and chain smoking. I stayed in my car puffing away, looking in every direction waiting for her to arrive.

A beautiful Hispanic woman started walking toward the little shop with only two outdoor settings. She wore a black pencil skirt and a white, black top and red heels which I later realized was her favorite color combination. Her dark hair was pulled up with one spiral strand hanging delicately on the right side. She walked confidently in my direction, but she hadn’t seen me yet. When she was close enough, I stood up and out of the car. A cigarette dangling coolly from my lips as I locked the door. My pants hung low like my chain. My hair was expertly cut, which I made sure was fresh that morning.

“Hey.” I said, trying to be cool. My shirt sleeves rolled up so she could see me tattoo sleeves. I hoped the bad boy image would help me win her over. I wasn’t confident my game or station in life would work so I needed to pull out all the stops. She smiled, pulling the rogue strand behind her ear, her cheeks taking on a pink undertone. “Hey, Tito.”

“Let’s grab a seat,” I said, directing her to one of the outside chairs. “How you like our coffee?” I asked, still trying to sound cool. “Ice coffee, extra extra please.” She reached for her purse.

I shook my head, “I got this.” pulling out a wad of cash, again hoping it was impressing her. I knew on paper she was way out of my league but I thought that if I could stay in my league, maybe I could get her to like me again.

She smiled, looking at me and not once at the thick wad of nearly a thousand dollars in my hand. I made my way into the minuscule shop and emerged minutes later with two ice coffees. I placed hers in front of her with a straw. I smiled as I took my seat, careful to make sure my back was to the wall, one of my personal quirks. She sat playing with her lone strand, smiling at me, blushing like we were teenagers again.

“You look just as beautiful as you have always looked.” I managed to say.

“Thank you,” she said, “You look great, too.”

I think I blushed, knowing I looked different from my younger years. A beard, tattoos and muscle growth meant I was barely recognizable. I was scared her taste wasn't me, but she was giving me the impression that I was wrong.

We talked for over an hour. Eventually, it was time for her to return to work. I stood up first with a smile plastered to my face. It waned a bit as I realized our small fairy tale was ending. She lived far away from me and these rendezvous would be nearly impossible with any regularity. Still I had to ask. “Can we do this again, soon?”

“Yeah, I’d like that. I have a client in Brockton for a few days next week. I’m actually staying local because it’s a big job. Maybe we can grab lunch?” “Dinner?” Again, I had to ask. The butterflies in my stomach had not flapped with such ferocity since the first time I saw her.

She paused, looked at me and nodded, “Dinner works.”

I walked her back to her office. We said goodbye with a hug and I kissed her on the cheek, making sure to linger just a second too long, hopefully letting her know how I felt. She hugged me back, squeezing tight, her fingers pressing firmly against my back muscles.

“Thank you. It was great to see you.” She said, moving the relentless strand of hair from the side of her face, placing it back over her ear.

“It was my pleasure.” I responded as I opened the door for her to walk through. I watched her walk into the office.

 I turned around and for the first time in ten years I was floating again.


“Oh, how the years go by.”

Only the echo of that rough southern voice was caught out in open land like this. Land arid by heat and miles and miles of nothing. “I remember there used to be grass here, more alive than either one of us.” The man speaking kicked a rock across the parking lot of a rusted gas station, a relic of the past, it could do nothing but be useful for scavenging for fuel now. “Will you keep it down? Pull up your scarf.” The man leaned down into the barely kept-together car they had stolen not too many miles down the road. “What for? Ain’t nobody but you and me around here.” Silus retorted. The paint on the red Toyota they nabbed was falling off, chipping to the ground in flakes, and as this bigger man set his weight on it, it squeaked on its wheels, the noise something awful. “Silus!” they exclaimed and he was hanging halfway out the window. “Can you focus?” Silus rolled his eyes. “Yeah yeah..” he muttered standing back up and looking tirelessly at the gas can being slowly filled with gas from the pump.

“I’m serious though.” Silus managed to pull his bandana back on his face. “Ox, I really am. You don’t remember running in the grass? Or those days it used to rain and you’d be happy because it wouldn’t be hot for once?” Ox sighed leaning into the leather of the passenger seat of the car. “I suppose I do remember. What I wouldn’t give for some rain.” Silus laughed, “Amen partner. Amen.” They sat there for a few moments in nothing but completely silent. There weren’t any trees

To rustle or grass to sway. No birds to sing and rarely any cars to pass by and offer a short-lived breeze and you could watch as its light wound into the night.

These two hadn’t seen it be the night for quite some time now. “What comes after this?” Ox said silently. The question lingered between the two. Silus, of course, didn’t have the answer Ox wanted yet had felt his breath hitched when he knew the answer. “Nothing I reckon. Nothing at all.” His bandana had fallen again. “Enough with all that crisis and whatnot. We aren’t getting anything else out of this anyway.” Silus dropped the pump and as it made a loud noise of metal scraping on metal he walked to the trunk and popped it open. “Keep it down out there!” Ox shouted from inside the car. Silus rolled his eyes as he placed the gas can in the trunk and hopped into the driver's seat. “You’re so nervous, lighten up,” Ox grumbled something as Silus put his foot on the gas and turned back onto the two-lane road that seemed to stretch for miles.

The ride home was always daunting to Ox, either it’d be too quiet because they didn’t know what to say or it would be loud because their mind always convinced them that someone had broken into the farm and taken the very last of their rations. They imagined Silus was always stuck in a daydream because he never treated any situation as dangerous as it was. Was he like an air-headed child or just some ignorant cowboy, Ox didn't know. Ox turned their head toward the horizon, mesmerized by it. The sun was always there, of course, these days it never left, and that brought some sort of comfort to Ox. They sighed as they thought about how this even happened, how they got stuck surviving like this. They used to work on a ranch and it had been their turn to put all the hay in the attic and basement of the barn. They hated doing this, the hay bales were so heavy and the wagons never seemed big enough.

They took on a good sweat as they dragged each bale into the basement and once they were done they sat to admire their work. That’s when the sirens went off. A loud voice rang throughout the whole county and the only words Ox could gather were, “This is not a drill. This is not a drill!” The farm owner found Ox and pulled them from the barn into the bunker under his house. Ox had always been thankful that his boss was a paranoid man in case something like this happened. They stayed there for weeks, no one would tell Ox what happened because they weren’t even sure themselves, and when they finally emerged from the bunker, it was all gone.

The cows, the crops, the trees. All of it vanished and was replaced with dry soil broken by empty lifeless veins. And as they looked to the sun they noticed it was much closer and half of it was gone. News couldn’t explain what had happened, why so many people lived through it, why new diseases started suddenly popping up everywhere, or why everything was just gone. People started dropping like flies.

The memory of Ox and Silus meeting was torn into small recollections. The vivid ranch that was once breathing life was replaced by a desolate panorama and would serve as the perfect scene for a shootout. Everyone wanted to survive. Silus would rather share supplies, that were now rare, with Ox instead of just shooting them for it. Ox was thankful but had their suspicions. It had been five years since they traveled together now, so no suspicions were confirmed.

As the years passed the sun, once this omnipresent beacon, waned, and all anyone left could do was hope that maybe when it disappeared into the void, it would come back the next day. Who knew what would happen when it was finally gone.

Silus hit the brake before Ox even realized they were back home. “You done daydreamin?” Silus quipped and Ox groaned getting out of the car. The ranch, with its rotting wood and faded past stood tall, a testament to humanity's lively existence. As they walked toward it all either one of them could think of was the twilight and the constant need to live. All they had was this never-ending cycle of being together. Although Ox misses the way things were they couldn’t help but crack a smile as Silus nudged their shoulder. Even at the end of the world, they could laugh. That was enough for them.


I've lived a hundred lives in one life, no telling how many before. Time has always been an illusion, and one I am not too fond of. My first life was as an awful child, perhaps my second, considering I was once a babe; even a third, as the womb was my first home, though I remember it not. You know how the progression goes. Why should I miss any of it?

Why does anyone tarry in nostalgia? Perhaps to hold onto a past they carry in their hearts anyway? Trinkets and trivial weight they unnecessarily burden themselves with, making each step forward more rigid and inflexible. Nostalgia affirms you to only one path, preventing sight of the less beaten tracks of risk and adventure. Holding on to what is gone can only hold you back. The race is hard enough without the pain of remembrance. Each life is nothing more than the lesson of the day. Occurrences are to be studied and transversed into knowledge to pass the test of tomorrow, which will be another lesson unto itself. Each lesson is harder than the lesson before, constantly reaching for a graduation that is always out of grasp.

I say this as if you don't realize it's true, but you do. The words don't come from judgment because I have been where you are. I struggled to reach a destination burdened by nostalgia, leaving parts of my soul along a weary well-worn path. I can only hope that the discarded remnants of my past were found by other weary travelers, who admired the pain I endured and grew from it as I did. Life is nothing more than a journey of these lessons, each one building upon the last. It's crucial to recognize that the past can be a valuable source of knowledge, but dwelling on it can hold you back from achieving your full potential. I've learned from my struggles, but discarded hanging on to the wound itself. I have learned that holding onto what's gone will only hinder my progress toward a brighter future.

The key to success is to use the lessons of the past to move forward confidently and embrace new challenges with an open mind. I encourage you to take risks, explore new opportunities, and focus on the present and future. The road may not always be smooth, but with the right mindset, you can accomplish anything you set your mind to. "Is this nostalgia or did I create it?" Reflecting on the nature of life also means reminiscing. The difference lies in whether you learn from the knowledge gained and move forward, or get stuck in it. For me, the choice has always been crystal clear, unlike the rose-tinted versions of the past. Could I have learned to walk if I had not crawled first? After I learned to walk, I did not go back to crawling. Similarly, I did not continue wearing the same soiled diapers from my past. As I grew older, I no longer relied on the milk of youth, but instead learned to digest the meat that was necessary for my growth. I value the process of growth and the lessons I have learned along the way. I know how to nourish my soul and thrive. That is where the true challenge lies. Once I began my walk, I explored with abandon. Fire was hot, and water was wet, when combined they diminished each other. These are things I learned, and I became cautious with my steps...but I touched them both again. I became aware of their necessity and powers. I learned that childhood is necessary as well. An existence covered in the illusion of protection but harmed despite them. We are walking wounds until we are healed, but at least we have learned not to run. Understanding we are constantly evolving into a higher form of ourselves is essential to healthy growth. Shedding the wounds of the past set us free to grow into the healthy individuals we were meant to be. Nostalgia brings sorrow to the heart. It's like walking backward on a twisted trail. You can only navigate the path by visualizing it before you. By walking backwards you are doomed to trip and stumble over things you would have seen if facing forward. Avoid new wounds and scars by embracing the future before you. The simple definition of nostalgia is a sentimental longing. Being sentimental is walking around drenched in your emotions. It sparks deep compassion and exposes you to both pain and joy. It's part of the process of awareness. Understanding others and yourself. It is your path, the steps you've taken to get where you are. It is not where you are now. You long for something you can never have back, the past. There are better ways to experience your emotions. Express them, don't suppress them. They will burn like a fire until they ignite a bomb you cannot extinguish. Let go of the chains that hold you back or you will be caught in the explosion. Move forward like a prisoner who has finally been set free and explore the future you deserve. Remember that nostalgia is just a fleeting sentiment. Store the lesson in your heart but move boldly forward leaving the past where it belongs. Behind you. I can't afford to be nostalgic. The cost is too much, too painful, too unchangeable for me to waste my time. Although we live many lives, each one is fleeting and barely passes like a breath before it ends. The true question is who you are within that fragile breath. Nostalgia locks you into becoming nothing but your past. How much more could you have been if you had simply let go of the invisible hands that held you back? There is still time. Live the life you've been given and move forward confident about the future. At the very least, when you take that last breath, there will be no regrets. Isn't that enough?