By Camila Toriello

On January 27th at 1:53 AM, I recognized life as incendiary: likely to cause violence or strong feelings of anger. Life became incendiary in its value; I understood how fast it can go away, even if the decision is not. 

I used to sit in the same position that I had countless times before. My eyes would be glued to the same place on the white ceiling, and something about the whole thing would bring me comfort like no other. Seeing how the golden light from the window bleeds into the room casting the familiar orange shadow. I would stare at it and imagine my life in the outlines of the tree across the street. I stared at it and imagined stories, escapes, situations. I stared at it so much that I imagined it moving, morphing into a mandala shape, swirling and mocking me. I stared at it so much that I was sure I wasn’t imagining it. 

Creeping above me, my eyes would follow the orange shadow and look at how it would dance on the ceiling, flowing in a way that would make it forgettable that it’s only a shadow. When I sat, I followed it, reaching out to touch it before it distorted again, leaving in its place a white brick wall, the same one I was staring at before. But it’s a void, now white instead of yellow.

It was my safe space for as long as I could remember. I was impervious to everything else while I was there. 

On January 27th at 1:53 AM, the same place that had healed me so many times before became the room where my best friend tried to kill herself. With a scissor against her neck and uncontrollable tears streaming down both of her faces, the yellow lighting that would comfort me sat uselessly, caressing us. 

The window that held the tree across the street did nothing but watch, mocking us in its endless possibilities for life. How it would sit there for countless hours and even if it withered, it would stand tall. Even if its leaves decided to abandon it, the skeleton would remain there, unmoved, like a live force. The light would leave, and the artificial beauty from the bulb would be turned off once the yolk spilled through the window, leaving the tree all alone. And the tree would have to watch. It would have to observe as the orange light faded, unable to move without disturbing its original form. 

Too scared to. 

In less than five minutes, what the tree knew for all of her life changed, all its definitions reformed.

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Camila Toriello is a 16 year-old student from Guatemala who has been writing for two years and enjoys reading during her free time.