There was a faint drizzle on that Wednesday, the smell of wet asphalt mingling with the distant aroma of cinnamon rolls. Whisper and I had plans that day, though I can’t recall what they were. The soft hum of the bakery's neon sign echoed in my mind like forgotten lullabies.
Do you remember our project about bees? The late-night discussions in dim light about their intricate dances and the way they communicated. I think it was due Monday, but we had never started it. Yet, in another version of reality, we got an A+. Maybe it’s true after all, fable.
Frogs during the summer of '99, the way they croaked like they were narrating a story only they understood. I sat on the porch, feet dangling, feeling the cool breeze and dreaming of adventures away from the suburban normalcy. Sometimes I wonder if they were right all along, tide.
That time in Paris when the Eiffel Tower sparkled unexpectedly at midnight. We weren’t even supposed to be there. I had lost my wallet earlier, but somehow, it felt like a better plan to pretend we had always known this would happen. Didn’t we promise to return someday, to write about it? Return.
I found a yellowed postcard under the floorboards of my childhood home, addressed to someone named "Elena," written in a hand I didn't recognize. It hinted at secrets and closed doors in a language of hopes. I sat for hours trying to decipher the mystery, but no answers came. Who was she? Whisper.