I’ve come to know every etch on this park bench; all the cracks and divots in the bark of the pine tree beside it; and the distance I need to sit from the edge so that my feet can touch the ground. The warm air is starting to come with a bit of a bite at this time of year, so my skin is covered in goosebumps but I’m not willing to bend just yet to the changing season. There’s a girl with a pink sweater and a pink hoodie hanging on her head. She embodies the colour so well. She’s happy, excited. I feel happy for her. The sky is a smooth pink and purple cotton candy. I take pictures but it’s never the same. There’s a group of young men playing frisbee, roughhousing, cracking jokes—it feels like forever ago; I can’t remember the last time I felt genuinely comfortable enough to laugh out loud with someone I trust. I want to know what that feels like. Trusting someone. Being me. I’ll bet it’s one of the best feelings in the world.