You thought rain was romantic and dreamed of Mr Darcy kisses, with his wet hair tickling your eyelids and becoming entangled in your lashes, reading the lines of unsaid words between reticent glances and feeling your heartbeat resonate like drums within you, quivering at the possibility of your song echoing and being heard.
You believed in love and life and slept in overgrown grass in the early spring, shivering from the cold of the gales and shuddering at the heat from above, and catnapped at the wishful thought that the sky above, the clearest and brightest blue you have ever seen, would stay constant.
You demanded dreams of floating, of trembling voices that whispered of love in fear, in fairy lights, in thunderstorms that rattled windows and rustled curtains, and in plastic glow-in-the-dark stickers of stars and the blinking fluorescent tubes from the apartment beside yours outlining the profiles of people you loved through the reigning chaos.
You believed that Indian summers were not an occurrence but a clairvoyance felt upon leaning against a scorching telephone pole in the middle of the day, fleeing from the heat to beneath eucalypt trees or hearing words like “juniper”.
You thought there was something precious about the moments before you fall asleep, something humane and child-like, and that lying down next to someone in the middle of the night with open windows that let winter seep in was the only time when you needn’t doubt that what they say is the truth.
You dreamed that the first time someone called you beautiful, they’d splutter like they hadn’t expected to say it out loud, that you’d be able to feel a smirk crawl across your face, not in malice, but just because you couldn’t give away that all it took was one word and a twinkling to fall in love, not yet.
Six Things I Thought I Knew (Six Things I Need To Teach Myself Again So I Can Be Happy), Pooja Tirunagari