Between Then & Now || Currently Editing for Wattys 2022

9.

The paper is probably the most colorful sheet of dead tree I have ever seen in my life. Lines cross back and forth, color coded for day, the key next to the outline of the USA explaining what the colors mean. Next to it, my highlighters all sit, caps on for probably the first time in the last 48 hours. I sit back in my desk chair, crossing my arms and examining the sheet in front of me.

The rest of my family left yesterday, leaving me along with Sarah yet again. Normally, I would likely be questioning my sanity and mental health by now, but, after holding off from extremely obsessing over planning my summer road trip for the first twenty-four hours after I got the van, I had absolutely no problem not leaving my room from the moment my family left to the moment I leave tomorrow morning.

My last two boxes sit next to the bedroom door, the rest of my belongings already sitting in the van, organized. The only things left unpacked are the highlighters sitting on my desk, the map I'm going to fold up and keep in one of the cup holders, and the clothes on my back.

And a singular bowl filled with a pile of ashes, engulfed happy memories with someone who threw it all away in a moment much quicker than the flick of a lighter. My eyes flitter around the bowl, searching for a ping of emptiness within my core. But none comes.

For what feels like the first time in the last two weeks, a small creeps across my face–a genuine smile–not because someone is cracking a joke and is expecting a laugh, not because someone helped me with something, not because I'm expected to for some other arbitrary reason society expects us to fake happiness.

I smile because I feel like smiling. Because I'm... happy.

Yeah, happy.

I'm not sure what this roadtrip is supposed to teach me. I'm not sure if I'll be exactly following the plan I obsessed over for two days straight. Hell, I haven't even decided when it's supposed to end.

But, for once, I'm not worried about whether or not Tessa has taken my place in Michael's bed. I'm not worried about finally getting a job offer. I'm not worried about where I'm supposed to be or who I'm supposed to be with or what I'm supposed to be doing.

Because, frankly, I do not give a flying fuck.

I sit back in the chair, eyes tracing the white circle of light thrown around my room from the desk lamp. A breeze comes in from the open window, causing the map on the desk in front of me to flutter. My eyes watch it, the corner rising and falling and eventually coming to rest back on the desk.

For a moment, I close my eyes, picturing the summer ahead of me. Mountains and forests and rivers. And books and films and life. Hikes, nights spending looking up at a giant sky full of stars, skin sticky with the humidity of summer. The smell of dry pine needles and freshly turned dirt and a rushing rivers of lively fish. Cities full of lights, people walking down the street of downtown, wondering exactly how different their lives are from my own. Days spent filming everything–all of the life, all of the lack of life, all of the smiles, the tears, all of the stories I hear and people I meet. Freedom–just a few moments to take a few breaths–a few deep breaths–before I'll have to eventually return to the real world again and find an actual job.

I open my eyes and blink a few times. The paper in front of me flutters again, and I look at the overlapping lines of pink and orange and green.

Just a few moments of freedom.