Something unusual is happening – the good kind, but also not quite.
Every grey, filthy pavement turns into crystal-clear brooks where she can spot colourful pebble-sized quartzite, granite, and marble as she plunges her feet into the frigid water and make her way downstream to go after where the stream flows. All careless and rude pedestrians are now friendly-looking tiny animals out of a children’s storybook or Disney and Pixar movies alike, exchanging conversations in languages she’s somehow familiar with. The dull, boring skyscrapers are shifted into vast blooming meadows with blossoming magnolias and dahlias and lush greeneries wherever one’s eyes gaze at.
It is quite a scenery for everyone to enjoy and appreciate. Daylights are longer and day-to-day mundanity feels lighter. She even smiles a lot more often than what she generally allows her to.
But it makes her uneasy whenever she tries to figure out why.
She hates that she’s absorbed in guilt rather than contentment. She feels wrong whenever she stares at a particular something and laughs, but also weirder that she has to keep forcing herself not to put on too much of a grin. Besides, what’s with all these excessive joy and giggles anyway? I hope it’s just hormones, she wishes. But I don’t think so.
It rained quite a bit today, the kind with patchy drizzles and a hint of petrichor; and she hated what it reminded her of.
Two cities, miles apart, unbeknown to each other.
Why can’t it feel right to feel good? Why does it feel undeserving for her to be happy? Why is it not as effortless as it used to be to appreciate mutual fondness?
What are we even?