That was the sign. That was the writing on the wall that I chose not to read.
‘What do you believe in?’ she said to me. And I’m drawing a blank. Call me a realist. Call me boring. Call me pedantic. And yet, and yet. And yet I’m still a romantic. Logically, I look at everything and say, ‘there’s a rationale behind that. There’s a reason that’s the way it is. That’s not magic. That can be explained.’ And then I go off and secretly believe in fate. Or imagine I’ve seen a ghost. Or fall in love with everyone I see.
Everything’s pure right now. The air smells new. Call it autumn. Call it the post-evening glow. But everything’s clean. Made new. Cool, fresh air wafting in to me over the green belt. The night is still, the trees are still, but there’s still the faintest of breaths on my face. Washing me clean. Breathe in breathe out. Start again. Recycled air. But recycled and purified. Born again. And god but it feels good to be alive.