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These messy, weird, work-in-progress are confusing and lonely at times. But it’s also filled with moments that humble you and fill you with growth and life lessons that your parents couldn’t prepare you for. These years aren’t about living your best life. They're about learning about yourself and how you’re destined to navigate life’s obstacles. So, no, I don’t feel free. At least, not yet. But if this happens to be the messy part of my story, then that’s okay. Every great story needs a little bit of bad because the best parts always reveal themselves after the struggle’s over.

Oh Angel, won't you lock eyes with me? My chest flutters to my throat when you float near me. Your light shatters the dark inside me. So why then, does my heart clench itself when you land too close? Why do tears threaten to spill when your shadow soars right over me? I can’t help but avert my gaze, for fear that your radiance will burn right through my flesh. I think I love you. I ache to mirror, even a shred of your divinity and grace. And your voice. That honeyed tongue, that rains sweet melodies from the clouds, seeping into the hearts of all who listen. Won’t you lend me your halo, just for a moment? Your presence is like a hymn. So healing. But yet- it sickens me. Poisons me. But no,  I don’t loathe you. I can’t. Because I need you. Please don’t fly away. You are perfection. A  mirror which reflects all my faults unto me. Yet you’re the one carrying all my dreams, so neatly tucked under your wings. You’re glorious, untouchable even. And I… am undeserving of you. Oh, Angel. Why won’t you love me?

The first time I tried ice cream was also the day I discovered my dislike for chocolate. It was a Friday afternoon, and my father had just returned from work. Fridays were always something to look forward to because they always came with surprises- delicious treats my father brought home for the family to share. Sometimes, it was something extravagant, like the red velvet cakes from the plaza downtown. Rich, moist layers laced with thick, decadent cream cheese. On other days, it would be simpler, like a jackfruit that my mother would split open with a knife, roasting the seeds over the coal stove before we divided the sweet, fragrant pieces amongst ourselves.          On this particular evening, I found myself outside, sprawled in my grandfather’s hammock, pretending to be fascinated by the palm trees that rustled quietly above me in soft whispers. I leapt up the moment I heard the sound of jingling keys and the long creak of the old wooden gate, followed by its abrupt slam, announcing someone's arrival. It was him! This was followed by the squeaks of his black, dusty boots, which shuffled noisily onto the verandah. I dashed towards the house, trailing closely behind my father's long legs that stretched with ease into the kitchen. My mother, who often scolded my father for ruining her freshly wiped floor, stayed silent. Or rather, her curiosity was outweighed by the part of her brain that reminded her to look down and notice the dirt tracks her eyes were always so quick to point out. She too, followed behind my father, her eyes fixed on the mystery container he clutched near his waist. My father, whose stoic nature rarely broke, had a soft curve etched on the corner of his lips. Even though I was young, I could always sense his quiet pride, secretly enjoying the attention he received through his role as the bringer of delight, even if he wouldn't admit it. Amongst the suspense, my father peeled back the lid of the container to reveal a smooth chocolate-brown surface. You could see wisps of cold steam rising from it if you squinted your eyes just right. “Chocolate ice cream”, he called it, while reaching for a spoon from the pantry.         My 5-year-old palate was accustomed to receiving sweet treats every now and then, which were carefully rationed to me by my mother to ensure I didn't “spoil my teeth”. This though, was something new, and I was bubbling over with excitement. I placed the cold metal spoon of ice cream in my mouth, swirling my tongue in curiosity to explore the flavour. I expected it to be the kind of sweet that tingles the inside of your cheeks like when you're eating a tamarind sweetie. The kind of sweet that was so nice that you let it linger on your tongue till the taste faded out on its own. But I was met with something else. At first, it was sweet, just as I had envisioned. However, the initial sweetness quickly dissolved into a harsh and bitter taste that stung my cheeks and shocked my senses. This complexity frightened my poor taste buds, who advised me to refrain from taking another bite. My parents, however, found amusement in the face I made, which I imagined was a mixture of disgust and betrayal.      That moment stayed with me, not just because I discovered something new about myself but because it taught me a lesson. It was my first encounter with the idea that sweetness can be deceiving. Life, much like that spoon of chocolate ice cream, doesn't always give you what you expect. And when it does, the sweet moments will pass by so quickly that you'll miss it if you blink. No time to truly savour it the way you'd want to. The bitterness that follows, however, lingers longer than you'd like it to, leaving a taste in your mouth so strong that no amount of scrubbing can remove it. It makes you wonder if the pursuit of just a spoonful of sweetness is even worth it in the first place.