Today I told my mom that I couldn’t wait to shower tomorrow. She looked at me quizzically and said, “if you’re excited to shower, your life must be really boring.”

And yeah, I probably deserved that. But she just doesn’t quite understand the way I see showers.

I like showering because I like when my hair looks nice. I like when the curls fall the right way and they’re bouncy and shiny like first or second day hair.

I like showering because I get to shave my body. I like when I get under my blankets in bed and I can run my legs back and forth to feel that nice fresh smoothness they have.

I like showering because I like using all of my fancy shower products. I like how soft my body scrub makes my skin, how clean my body wash makes me feel, and how good I smell after.

I also love that showering gives me personal alone time.

When I’m in the shower, skin turning red with the heat, it’s just me. It’s whatever I want. My feelings, my thoughts, my tears. When I’m in the shower, nobody interrupts me from daydreaming about the girl I like, or pretending to film a hair tutorial video, or singing my favourite song.

But most of all, the thing I love about showering is the cleanse. But not the physical cleanse; the mental and emotional cleanse.

Taking a shower is like recharging my battery. It’s like starting a new week on a Wednesday, or getting a good nights sleep in the middle of the day.

I failed my math test today, but that won’t matter tomorrow. I ate unhealthy food without working out today, but that won’t matter tomorrow. I could embarrass myself tomorrow, or sit alone at lunch, or have a really bad day, but that won’t matter. None of it will.

Because tomorrow I will shower.

And in the shower I will scrub my skin raw, and the water will burn off everything - failed tests, unhealthy food, embarrassment, loneliness, bad days. All of it will be gone. I will exit the shower in a light shade of red, skin on fire, but I will be smiling. I won’t care about what happened today, or yesterday, or the day before, because this is a new page.

I have turned the page, I am clean, and I can’t wait to do it again in four days.

Love is a crazy feeling. Is it even considered an emotion? Because it feels more like an addiction. An addiction to the rush, the high you can receive from just sitting near someone, or catching someone’s eye. A feeling so strong it completely takes control over rationality. A desire that overthrows sensibility. A rush producing so much dopamine that the mind begins to crave it.

For me, I’d always craved the feeling. Ever since I met her, in the ninth grade. She was beautiful, and smart, and funny. And she liked me. Like, really, truly, liked me for me.

Our friendship evolved over the years, and it turned into more for me. Of course it would; I mean, what’s not to love about her? So we texted, and we sat together in class, and sometimes she’d call me late at night when she wanted to have one of those deep conversations that usually involves long pauses. And sometimes we’d make plans, but she was busy and I was too, so when they fell through I just brushed it off. And then I would dream about her.

Eventually our friends morphed into one big group, and I saw her a lot more. At lunch, at my friends houses, at parties. She would get drunk, and get clingy, and always end up either sitting in my lap or leaning on me, kissing my cheek or touching my hair. It became normal, practiced. Nobody batted an eyelash when we were intertwined on a couch.

So the assumption that she might love be back didn’t seem too far-fetched at the time.

When I finally worked up the courage to talk to her about it, we were sitting outside at a park on a rather quiet summer day. The sky was cloudy, wind present, but it was warm nonetheless. ‘Besides, the sun gives me a headache,’ I’d said.

She held my hand the whole walk there and was quick to slip right against my side on the bench we found. It felt amazing. Being near her felt amazing.

Led by adrenaline, I finally brought myself to tell her, mildly confident.

I told her I loved her, as more than a friend. Told her that I always had, since the year we met. I told her how I thought she was beautiful, and how I loved having her tucked into my side, and loved the way that she smiled only at me when she was really happy about something.

All she’d said in return was, “I don’t like girls.”

And then she left. She got up, and walked back in the direction we came not fifteen minutes ago. And I was shattered, and confused, and embarrassed. I mean, how had I misread these signs so badly? That’s what they were, weren’t they? Signs? The kisses, the smiles, the whispers, the jokes, the gazes, the touches, the moments. Our moments.

Had all of it had meant nothing?

I knew I should have been mad. I should have been the one storming away from her; she lead me on! I should have been infuriated, should’ve told her how messed up she is and that I never wanted to see her again!

But that wasn’t true, and I knew it. Now more than ever, I felt cold. I missed the feeling of her body pressed into mine, and I missed the warm fire she lit inside of me. I missed her seconds after she left me, and I knew I would miss her long after that.

But now she was gone, and I felt empty.

But it was my fault.