I almost forgot about her, the one who’d appear in pictures out of her own will. I almost forgot about her, one who’s unfazed about how people view her. Season might’ve brainwashed me into someone I thought I’ve always been. I almost forgot about… her smiles and her dreams; her passions and her confidence; her principles and her experiences; her comforts and her fears— things she was certain about. But I met her again in my most resentful state, in the form of paper, ink, and dust—and then I remembered her. She looked a bit messy, but her innocence was visible. I checked every detail of her like I'm her concerned sister, wiping all those dusty particles before wiping the warm liquid formed in my eyes. “I miss you,” I whispered as I skimmed her entirety. She was so pure and genuine when I started reading about her life. She’s worn the sleeveless dress I kept in my drawer for ages. She’s photographed herself, smiling with her teeth showing. She’s been yapping about that one particular guy during her 8th grade and how same-sex relationships disgust her without knowing what the world would bring her (funny). Even the circle she’s built was written in her face—the silly moments with them and the serious encounters they had together. I was genuinely happy and unbothered by that time, wasn’t I? Now, all that’s left in me are nostalgia and grief; all I could think about are worries and doubts; all that I am right now is a piece of canvas painted with a bittersweet hue.