I know that I’ve changed, but it never really hits me until extremely particular moments. Just another part of spring, I guess.
I used to love looking at my camera roll, but now it feels weird. I don’t really know her all that well, and my friends would agree. I’m not drastically different, I just can’t seem to remember why she dressed that way, why she acted that way, why she lived that way.
When it comes down to it, though, I’m just happier.
There are a couple of gaps here and there, but what I’m mature enough to know, deep down, is that there’s no perfection; there’s always a spot that you can’t erase or a missing piece of the puzzle. I’m not going to stop yearning, but I’m also not going to stop being imperfectly satisfied.
I’ve never really been afraid of change. I’ve welcomed it with open arms, embracing it. I never had anything to lose; I was always happy to up and leave at any moment.
This year, though, I stumbled into something beautiful, and now I understand the real reason junior year is so infamously horrible: the change.
It shouldn’t take me by surprise, but it does. Every time.
My time is measured in monthly calendars, color-coded and curated, my daily ritual.
Now, with a month left of stories before it all changes, a handful of highlighting, and a forecast of bittersweetness—potentially just bitterness, I am undecided—I am caught between gratitude and the selfish fact that I don’t want to see May. For me, the change isn’t even that great. I’m staying put, but my grasp around the exact pattern of each day has tightened, and the slightest edits ripple through my chest.
It’s all been so, so vibrant.
Painfully so.
Because it really is coming to an end soon, and August feels like forever ago, and I’ve lived a lifetime between the first day of fall and the first day of spring. When it comes down to it, I suppose this is just another love letter, another ode, to the fact that I’ve gotten too used to the routine. The rhythm of my day has become hypnotizing, and when the spell breaks, I don’t know what will become of me. The sun might fill in the gaps, or it might spotlight the sharpness within.
I’m afraid my life will become colorless. I’m afraid that when it all changes, the stopper will be yanked from the drain, creating a whirlpool of it all. And I will be stuck, watching the color drain, watching the cadence of my life change, feeling the rug being pulled out from under me.
I suppose I could stand to watch it drain, if I knew what was on the other side. It’s the uncertainty; that’s always what it is.
I can only hope, and I can only keep writing to the now before it becomes something else.
For better or for worse.
