I woke up this morning around 8, and headed straight for my bedroom window. I pulled back the shades, letting the sunlight flood my room, standing there while it enveloped me, lifted me up. On any other Saturday, I would probably toss and turn in my bed, until the middle of the day, forcing myself to get the rest I so desperately wanted. But today was different. I was simply happy to be awake — to see and feel the sun rays on my face. I looked down onto the street below, and then high above the buildings that crowded the skyline in front of me. In the reflection of my window, I could still see the tear stains on my cheeks. Just a few short hours ago, I was curled up in a ball on the floor of my tiny Manhattan apartment, overcome by waves of guilt, desperation, and fear. And now this. Funny how things happen, I suppose. The bad days are always so low, but the good ones almost make the sadness worth it. You’d think I’d be used to this rollercoaster by now. I’ve been riding this ride for as long as I can remember, so I suppose it has become a permanent part of me, in some ways. Yet there’s that tiny something in my gut, telling me that one day things will be different. Maybe not today, or tomorrow, but eventually. And until that day comes, I’ll always have sunshine.

I couldn’t tell if I was having a really bad dream or just a really bad day. As I walked down Allerton Avenue on a blistering, hot summer evening, with my pumps in hand, all I could think of was the spinach salad that I hadn’t had a chance to eat before I left the office. Looking around, my fellow New Yorkers seemed much less concerned about food than I was. On the left of me was an older woman trying desperately to usher three young boys through the frenzied masses. Her frustration was palpable, as was mine. With every sidewalk flooded more so than I had ever seen, each step forward required far too much thought and effort.

As he walked down the street, he could see her sitting there, right in front of the window. If it were anyone else, he may not have believed them. She was different. The half dozen empty coffee cups that littered her table were no coincidence. Nor was the unyielding gaze that she had focused on her laptop screen, as she tapped away diligently at her keyboard. It was clear that nothing but dedication and perseverance had gotten her to this halfway point, and it would be those same two things that would carry her to the end.

Chris began to question the wisdom of this trip. After living in near seclusion for almost a decade, she was now about to step foot on the doorstep of the man who’d robbed her of her former life. It had been quite some time since she even had to think about him, nevermind see his face. Time, distance, and the years of counseling that started right after the final incident made that possible.

But as she navigated her way off of the interstate highway, and onto the bumpy, dirt road leading to his street, images of him began to flash through her head. All of a sudden, she could see his icy blue eyes, disheveled hair, over-sized hands, and the deep scar that ran down his left cheek – the one that she had put there. His face became as just vivid in her mind as it was the last day they’d seen each other. She wondered if he still looked the same, or if the cancer had already taken its toll.

As Chris’ car turned the corner, the red brick house with the chain-linked metal fence slowly came into view. This was his house. She slowed down her car, although her heart was growing heavier. Doubt began to set in again. Was this something she was truly ready to face? Should she just keep driving, back to her home, her new life?

As she sat and pondered, with the December winds blowing through the small crack in her driver’s window. Then, suddenly, front door of the red brick house opened. A grey-haired man with a cane came out.

“Christina?”, he called out feebly.

Chris stopped in her tracks.

“Yes, it’s me”, she whispered back. “Hi, Dad”

“Um … narrative”, I replied, not even hearing the question.

“No, Charlotte”, Professor James retorted. “It’s interior monologue”.

I gave a small nod and quickly looked back down at my notepad. The final draft of my essay should have been on it, but aside from the name of a YouTube channel I planned to check out later, it was mostly blank.

What could I possibly write about this week? In the past three sessions, I had covered the over-utilization of roses, the impact of women’s shoes on mortality rates, and facial tattoos as a form of artistic expression. To be honest, I was completely starved for new ideas.

I turned my attention to my fellow classmates, hoping they’d be able to inspire me. Vanessa was the first to catch my eye. Actually, it was her mohair sweater and combat boots that made me do a double-take. Isn’t it June?, I thought to myself. Hmm. I wrote “Are Seasons Overrated?” on my pad, and then paused. Good idea, but not great.

Next to Vanessa sat Julio, in all of his dark-haired, dreamy-eyed glory. I wonder what he’s writing. When you look like him, should you even have to know how to write? I didn’t think so. I filled in the next line on my page with “The Unfair Expectations of Modern-Day America”. That one might have some promise.

Then there it appeared. It was Professor James and the matted, brown patch of fur glued to his head. It’s amazing what people tried to pass of as hair nowadays, I said to myself.

And then I smiled, suddenly knowing what I’d write about next. I picked up my pen and jotted down the working title for my next piece: “Squirrels — Openly Hated and Secretly Loved.”

It was my own little Saturday morning ritual. I would get all dressed up and wait by the door. After what felt like hours, I’d run upstairs and pace back and forth in front of my parent’s room, just to make sure my father hadn’t changed his mind. “One minute, honey”, he’d say. “We’ll be leaving very soon”. Appeased for the moment, I’d go back downstairs and sit. Waiting. And waiting. Until I’d finally hear the jingle of my father’s car keys. And then I’d feel joy.

Riding upfront in my father’s car was a little thrill in itself. As soon as we pulled out of the garage, I’d very quickly become entranced by everything around me. Most times, I would just sit in silence and gaze out of the window. My window. Other times, I’d play one of my many “looking games”. In my favorite game, I’d try to find all the letters of the alphabet, in order, on the license plates of the other cars. I’d almost always get stuck around ‘i’ — but on a good day, I could get as far as ‘o’, or even ‘q’.

I would be pulled out from my trance at least once during every trip. Counting out the change for the toll collector was a task saved especially for me, as I was my father’s co-pilot. But just as quickly as I was pulled away from my real job — watching — was as quickly as I fell right back into it. In my eyes, there was nothing that deserved my attention more. There was no other time during the day where I could as many interesting things as I did when I rode upfront, in my father’s silver car, and gazed out of the window.