The radio’s static is a distant hum compared to the woosh of cars on the street outside her bedroom window. They seemingly race each other down the dimly-lit street, racing towards an unknown destination. 

The music in question is Chelsea Cutler playing in a familiar, comforting loop, the same song on repeat, memorizing the lyrics of her newest release.

Every few minutes, another gust of wind will float in through the screen of her window, wafting the smell of her soy candle into the depths of her grey bedroom walls. 

And you can hear the flow of water from her faucet as she rinses the match she just used to light a second candle, a habit she can’t pinpoint the originator of, but she always does it. Her candle collection is getting out of hand. Too many wicks, not enough hours in the day to burn them all, yet she holds on to each one like it’s her saving grace.

Her mood is wrapped in lilac, draped in linens, and warm from the sun shining down upon her, her mind wandering through a field of pinks and purples, perched upon a picnic table, soaking up March. 

She’s at peace with text messages that resemble AP paragraphs and is willing to forgive the earth for her stuffy nose all week.

Willing to look past her headaches at the promise of better things, longer hours of daylight, and warmer temperatures.

There are three books scattered across her carpeted floor: a textbook she promised to give Allie months ago, a romance book she just finished, and Emma by Jane Austen—the book she just started. 

Her copy is beautiful—delicate, pretty, simplistic, romantic. The gold swirls across the front compliment her gold earrings, and she feels like spring when she reads from it, reading words written by someone long dead while she is entering into the most lively part of her life. 

She’s hoping to embody the adjective lively.

Remind people of the grasshoppers that fill the quiet night sky when the stars make their debut and resemble the glee in the children riding their bikes around paved sidewalks.

She drove home with her windows rolled down, passed under green traffic lights that cast shadows upon her egg-like car. She drove home with the warm air kissing her skin, her blonde curls intertwining.

She’s living for the soft melody that floats through her car speakers and flowers blossoming in people’s front yards. The purple in the sky and the purple on her nails, the peace hidden within the silence she used to hate—acting as if this season is for her benefit and her benefit only, deciphering what spring music is, having friends that hate being perceived and friends that want nothing more than for the UV Index to peak. All of them anticipating spring together, a countdown till their summer festivities, craving the warmth promised with the upcoming weeks.  

She’s living for herself this spring, and that’s all that matters.