A slow wind blew away the clouds, revealing a deep black, star-studded sky. I stayed in bed, listening to the cicadas chirp and the wind blow. The rainwater dripped slowly from the brimming gutter, falling past my window onto the wet gravel path of the hostel. Each drop landed with a faint, rhythmic patter, a final reminder of the storm that had passed.
Nature’s not that bad, I thought to myself, letting the sounds of the night settle into me. It had a way of creating its own language—a steady conversation between the earth and sky. I hadn’t noticed it before, too caught up in my own head to hear it. But now, lying here in the dark, I couldn’t help but feel a small sense of belonging, like the world had offered me a place within it.
I shifted under the thin blanket, my body still slightly cold from the walk back. The air in the room was damp, the kind of damp that clung to your skin long after the rain had stopped. But for once, I didn’t mind. The wind outside seemed to carry with it a freshness, a reminder that storms always pass. I turned on my side and stared out the window, the wet path below glistening in the moonlight.
There was something about the night that felt different, as if the world had rearranged itself just slightly, enough for me to notice. The stars, scattered carelessly across the sky, seemed closer than usual, clearer. I watched them for a while, tracing familiar constellations, wondering if she was looking at the same sky right now.
I hadn’t thought to ask where she was headed after our parting, hadn’t asked anything, really. But maybe that was how it was supposed to be—leaving things unspoken, letting the night fill in the gaps. There was something comforting in that, knowing not every question had to have an immediate answer.
A car passed on the road below, its headlights briefly illuminating the path, before disappearing into the distance. Silence settled in once again, broken only by the occasional rustle of the trees as the wind moved through them. I pulled the blanket closer, feeling the pull of sleep at the edges of my mind.
The cicadas' song carried me further into that quiet space, their rhythm softening the lines of thought in my head. For the first time in a long while, I wasn’t restless. I turned on some soft music, and closed my eyes.
I woke up late, it being a weekend. The sun shone brightly through the window, resplendent in a clear blue sky. For a moment, I blinked against the brightness, the sunlight flooding my room with an unfamiliar warmth. It felt like it had been days since the sun last made an appearance, the persistent drizzle replaced by this sudden burst of clarity.
I lay there for a while, my body still heavy with sleep, the blanket twisted around me like a forgotten memory of the cold night. Outside, the world seemed quieter, as if the earth itself was still shaking off the drowsiness of the morning. The sound of distant traffic barely registered, and I could hear birds chirping, filling the silence that rain used to claim.
I stared up at the ceiling, my mind wandering back to the coffee of yesterday. It felt strange, waking up without the same restless anticipation that had tugged at me for days. But the quiet seemed to pull me in, coaxing me to linger in this moment of peace.
Maybe I should get up, I thought to myself, but there was no urgency. The weight of the bed held me, and I let it. The weekend stretched ahead, long and unhurried. The rain-soaked streets of the past few days felt far away now, replaced by sunlight and shadows dancing across the walls.
Eventually, I pushed myself up, swinging my legs over the side of the bed. My feet met the cold floor, and I stood slowly, feeling the stiffness of a late start. It wasn’t a bad feeling—it felt more like a reprieve.
I wandered over to the window, pushing it open. The air was cool, fresh, carrying the scent of wet earth drying under the warmth of the sun. The pavement outside was still slick, but the puddles were shrinking, the remnants of yesterday’s rain evaporating under the bright sky.
For a moment, I just stood there, leaning against the windowsill, letting the sunlight warm my face. It felt almost too bright, too different from the dim, grey mornings I had grown used to.
But today was different. I wasn’t rushing anywhere. The weekend held no promises, no plans. Just the quiet hum of the town in the distance, and the empty hours stretching before me.
The hills in the distance looked misty in the morning, the bright sun dispelling the gloom. They called me to them, almost slyly lifting their fingers to beckon me towards them.
As though hypnotized, I put on my sneakers and took my bag. It took me a while to realize what I was doing, but I knew that all I wanted was to go to the hills.
I walked into the nearby grocery store and bought a tin of soup, and a whole loaf of bread. Then I walked briskly towards the start of the freshly muddy hill trail.
I grimaced at the thought of how much mud there would be on my clothes, but I looked up again, and saw the hills. I lingered for a while, feeling the weight of my camping bag press into my shoulders, grounding me. The town lay behind me, the quiet streets and familiar paths, and for the first time in a long time, I felt a pull away from it all—a pull toward something I couldn’t quite name.
With each step into the thick, dewy underbrush, I grew more aware of the earth beneath me. My shoes squished into the damp, soft soil, and the smell of rain and pine filled my senses. The mud, as expected, splattered against my pants, leaving wet stains that marked my progress up the trail, but I didn’t mind. It felt like shedding something, like leaving behind parts of myself with each muddy step.
The canopy above was thick, filtering the sunlight into soft, dappled patches on the ground. Birds rustled in the branches, and now and then, the sound of a distant creek reached me, as if it were calling me onward, too.
When I reached a clearing halfway up, I took off my bag and sank onto the grass, looking out at the view. The town was just a small blur in the distance now, half-hidden by mist and trees, and it felt like looking at a memory, something distant and hazy.
After a while, I pulled out the bread and slowly munched on half of the loaf. I leaned back, looking up at the sky, which stretched above in a perfect, cloudless blue. The sun had climbed higher, and its warmth was gentler now, softened by the cool breeze that swept down from the higher hills. I munched hungrily on the bar, despite having walked only for an hour.
I started walking again, seeing the trail slowly dry up as it became midday. The trees shone with the last of their green leaves, as autumn slowly approached. The maples and oaks were already turning into a tinge of yellow and red. A rabbit startled from its sleep and bounded quickly up the trail, till it dipped down towards the creek.
Murky brown water roared, moving swiftly after the rains. The old wooden bridge stood resilient against the masses of water, the same way it had stood for a century. I stood at the railings of the bridge, watching the water roll down the hillside. A little bird sat on a mossy rock and looked around, clearly enjoying the scenery. I wished I too could be as free as it, just flying in the blue sky, no care apart from plain survival. Just me and things I knew as actual, visible good and bad.
Authority was always something I accepted, mostly because I would be too scared to fight back. College gave me an attitude to be as uncomfortable as possible with other members of the human race. I fought with my class, but never with anybody who actually did something wrong to me. But that was now a thing of the past, as I realized, when I continued walking.
~~~
The old and graceful maples and oaks slowly turned to pines and aspen. The air became cooler, but the sun still shone hard on my back.
Fueled by some crazy subconscious urge to see everything, I walked faster, my lungs clean, my head clearing up. Exhausted, I stopped at noon, for my remaining half of bread and the cold canned soup. And almost immediately after finishing my lunch, I began walking again, hellbent on reaching the top of the hills.
The empty clearing at the highest point on the hill greeted me as the sun was underway in his downward journey. The flaming orange orb slowly sank across the horizon, casting longer and longer shadows over the misty valleys below. I stood there, catching my breath, but it felt like the view itself had taken it from me. The town was just a distant memory from up here, like some shadow I’d finally left behind.
Sitting down, I leaned back, resting my elbows in the grass. For a moment, I just stared out, watching the colors shift and fade as the evening crept in. The air was crisp now, with a faint hint of pine. It wrapped around me like the quietest promise, telling me I’d always find my way back here if I ever needed to.
But there was something that lacked. The experience was incomplete, I felt, as I stumbled back through the steadily darkening forest trail, with my phone torch's steady gleam illuminating the path. Something I didn't think of, but sorely missed.
A few hours of quiet walking later, I came back to where I started, quite muddy and tired, but happy. The sodium lamps had lit up hours ago, and the streets were deserted. I ambled up the path to my hostel, looking for that which I had missed.
I looked around me, taking in the rural night, gently bathed by the orange glow of the streetlights. There was no rain today, much like it too had taken off some time for the weekend.
I chuckled as I thought about it, and climbed up towards the little bus shelter. And as I saw it there, slightly foggy, I wanted to go sit in it again. Something was missing.
I sat there, watching the hazy light from the streetlamp fall across the empty road, and then it hit me. It wasn't the rain, or the lack of it, that had been a companion all day. It was the absence of a shared silence, a shared understanding.
Every moment of peace I’d felt on that hill, every quiet breath I’d taken, had felt like something I wanted to show her, to experience with her. The thought of tracing constellations, of watching the sun set, of feeling the cool breeze wrap around me—it all felt incomplete without her there beside me.
It wasn't just that I missed her; it was that I loved her. The thought was as clear and bright as the sun that had greeted me that morning, dispelling all the lingering shadows.
Comments
Post a Comment