WritesWrongs

No, I can't tell you which day of quarantine it is, but it's the sixth day of May. There's a very small "02:12" being displayed on the top right corner of my phone's display. The display is at minimum brightness, and yet dims the soft light from the moon above me. So I put it face down, letting its speaker softly sing 'History of Lovers' to me. Letting the moon reclaim her soft, silver glory.

Is she smiling? I can't tell. I can't see her face like I could as a kid. But I tell myself that she's smiling anyway. A blanket of dense, grey clouds floats around her. A light drizzle meets my skin. The tiny droplets settle in the soil, and they settle on my skirt. The air carries sounds of little crickets, blending with my songs. And the air carries the smell of heaven.

If you were to ask me what my favorite smell was, I'd probably lie and tell you it's petroleum or old books or fresh cookies. I'd like to save the smell of rain on mud for a time when I'm freed of my fears of vulnerability.

No, yeah, shouldn't let myself be distracted like this. Which is also why I should've turned off all notifications. My phone vibrates, two small dashes. I acknowledge the disturbance, only to let my screen light up with an obscure meme about human idiosyncrasies. The irony of the moment doesn't go unnoticed and I let myself smile a little. The meme was not unfunny.

What's so "vulnerable" in revealing your favourite scent you ask? (We're still there, shit, I realise.) Stop being so pretentious after all, you think. You stop yourself from saying this, at the last moment. You see, it's not the rain or its scent I intend to hide, but it's the truth—little and large. To trust is a free fall. To trust is bravery. To trust is strength and I'm yet to find all of that courage for me.