I don’t care for summer; it's just exasperating. Maybe it’s because I don’t bid summer goodbyes or know-how. Summer doesn’t mean much to me; it’s uninterrupted, humid, and unremarkable year-round. There’s an unexplainable stillness and my stagnant body morbidly rots in summer’s heat. It’s like I’m being thrust into a depressive rut. Summer is the weight I carry on my shoulders. Two or three years ago, the aloneness felt self-sufficient, and I was more than okay with it.
At sixteen, I knew where I wanted to be, not at the religious high school I found myself in. I wanted to be a witch in Salem, Massachusetts. It seems absurd now, given the dark history of the witch trials. It was my escape, my version of 'what could be,' far from the confines of the pale classroom and the mediocrity that surrounded me. There I was listening to "Silver Springs" by Fleetwood Mac (on repeat). It had to be the live at Warner Bros. Studios in Burbank, CA, in May of 1997 version, I remember thinking “Damn, this chick Rocks!”. I imagined myself as a rockin’ witch, casting spells on anyone who wronged me. Alas, we can’t always get our way.
At sixteen, I was a failed nihilist. A friend once said, “You’re too cynical for your own good,” and yeah, maybe I was awfully cynical, and I’ve always had the relentless need to know something, anything—I was a spoiled girl.
+
At seventeen, I watched the Before trilogy for the first time, and it left a mark on me—so much so that it became one of those films I watch every year after my birthday. In Before Sunrise, we’re introduced to the typical tourist American, Jesse, and the sarcastic French, Céline, who meet on a train and spend a spontaneous day-long conversation in Vienna. It’s the simplicity of it all that strikes me. It’s almost ordinary, yet they’re anything but. They explore the city together, share stories, and lie to themselves by pretending they have only one night. Then, they foolishly decide not to exchange contacts, promising to meet again in six months.
I don’t think at seventeen I would’ve imagined that at nineteen, I’d experience something similar—except, of course, it didn’t end with a promise of another meeting. It ended abruptly and its weight lingered for many weary months. It felt as though the nights I spent with him were all there ever was. At nineteen, the idea of connection as something fleeting finally made sense in a way it hadn’t before. Maybe that’s all we ever really get: a split moment, a brief connection, and then a parting that lingers in memory.
Something about the alabaster full moon on that first night, the way it cast a pale glow over everything, left me thinking of Céline’s words: “I believe if there's any kind of God, it wouldn't be in any of us—not you or me—but just in this little space in between. If there’s any kind of magic in this world, it must be in the attempt of understanding someone, sharing something. I know, it’s almost impossible to succeed, but who cares really? The answer must be in the attempt.”
There I was, listening to him talk about the places we passed by—each one a memory tied to a spot in the city I had known my whole life, but had never truly seen before. Everywhere we went, he had a story, a memory etched into a street, an alley. It was as if the city unfolded for him in layers. For someone like me, who spent most of her time confined to her room, it was exciting. To hear him speak of these places like they were part of his map, places that had shaped him, made me realize how much I had missed—how much I’d never truly lived within the very city I had grown up in.
I wanted to believe that what we had, however brief, meant something. But even as I tried to convince myself that I could let this pass, that the little time I’d spend with him would be enough—that somehow, I’d be able to let go—I couldn’t shake the feeling that it meant more to me than it ever could to him. Foolish girl, how she failed terribly.
+
And yet, for my own sake, I still hope to have many more conversations like that. Conversations with people who may stay, at least for a while. I’ve come to understand that that is the magic. The willingness to step into someone else’s world, to share a piece of your own, and to let it be imperfect, fleeting, maybe even painful. It doesn’t always have to end with promises. Sometimes, it’s enough to just have the conversation, to try to understand, to be understood, and to allow that moment—however brief—to be enough. Maybe that’s the real attempt, and the answer is in the attempt alone.
Because I know, somewhere deep down, that there are more stories to tell and more memories to make. And I hope next time, I won’t be the only one who’s trying to hold on.