Go on a road trip without planning every second.
Dance at a concert.
Take a random train somewhere.
Watch the sunrise from the beach.
Celebrate Holi without being scared of crowds.
Get drunk once without overthinking.
Kiss someone at midnight on New Year’s.
My heart actually stutters a little at that one. There are more underneath. Messier handwriting near the bottom like she kept adding things reluctantly.
Bake again.
Wear a red dress without feeling conscious.
Trust someone enough to fall asleep during a flight.
I look up slowly. She’s already watching me now. Guarded again suddenly. Like she thinks I might laugh. Like she thinks these things are too small to matter.
“Sunshine,” I say quietly, “these are your dreams?”
She immediately looks defensive. “Okay when you say it like that it sounds pathetic.”
“No.”
I shake my head instantly.
“Not pathetic.”
Something tight forms in my throat unexpectedly. Because none of these are grand things.
She isn’t asking for luxury. Or impossible adventures. She just wants the things fear stole from her. And that thought alone makes me feel strangely violent. I look back down at the notebook. There’s one thing written at the very bottom. In smaller handwriting than the rest.
Be happy without waiting for something bad to happen after.
Jesus Christ.
I stare at the words for a second too long because when I look up again, her expression has shifted.
“I didn’t think you’d read all of it.”
“I’m going to cry on New Year’s Eve,” I inform her solemnly.
“Oh my god.”
“You wrote emotional devastation in notebook form and handed it to me.”
She groans and reaches for it but I pull it away immediately. “No. This is evidence now.”
“Aryan.”
“Nope.”
“You’re impossible.”
