A Chilly November Day.

Like you, dear readers, I'm still in disbelief about how I ended up here. At the time, it all felt like a dream, a joke, and even a massive misunderstanding.

Lying in this dimly lit cell, I open my eyes, reflecting on the day I got arrested. As I was dragged out of Michael's apartment building wearing his big gray hoodie and my purple shorts, I held onto one thought: he would come, clear this mess, and I'd be set free. Going down the stairs, the halls were filled with neighbors pointing, speaking in low tones, and shuddering in disbelief. I frantically searched for his familiar face all the way down, knowing he was supposed to return soon with our breakfast. As I got downstairs with the hefty men, one of them entered the front passenger seat of the unmarked black car, another went to the other side of the back seat, while the last one was shoving my head through the other side. I was to sit in the midst of two men who treated me like vermin. 

In the midst of all the chaos, just before my head was pushed into the car, I locked eyes with Michael. It was a brief moment of relief, confident that he'd sort things out and end this nightmare. As I tried to point him out, he moved back and vanished from sight. Panic set in, and as my attempt to point him out was seen as resistance by the hefty man behind me, the butt of his gun slammed into the back of my head, a pain I'd never known, sending me into momentary confusion and unconsciousness. Unfortunately, the details of my journey to the station are a blank canvas, as I was out cold.

As I lay on the bottom bunk, my eyes are fixed on the intricate patterns of bars that crisscross the narrow space above me, a tangible reminder of captivity. Prison, an unimaginable place to adapt to, has become a twisted version of home. I can no longer imagine freedom as these walls, cold and unyielding, now define my existence. My memories serve as my only escape, a fragile thread tethering me to a reality beyond these unforgiving bars.

Prison routine sat right at home with me, as I was often called a creature of habit when I still had my liberty. I always found solace in the known considering how my life had turned out. For instance, I know that as the sun rises, iron cell doors echo open, signaling the start of the day. With my uniform on, I join the line of inmates shuffling to a breakfast served on metallic trays. Breakfast fit for animals, or at least that's what I thought initially, but I came to understand that it was the best I was going to get. Walking in this line to breakfast was one of the most terrifying times for me when I was newly imprisoned. More often than not, as we walked to breakfast, people got shived with makeshift weapons or fights that the guards would have to separate by striking down hard with their batons. Akin to scenes from movies, this was real.

After breakfast, everyone stacked the mettalic soiled trays on a trolley and moved to do their mandatory activities. A job done to keep things running smoothly. This month, I am on laundry duty; this one I liked because unlike toilet duty, it is easy to do. The other reason I enjoy it is because it's guided by the familiar dance of muscle memory. I just need to fold the washed white bed sheets and neatly stack them in a trolley. As I work on the task, my thoughts drift to cherished memories of the days that followed after the first night we spent together.

After leaving your place that afternoon, I got back to my off-campus apartment, and like every other group of girlfriends, I had to debrief. I told the girls everything that had happened, omitting a few parts that I had considered mine and mine alone like the chiseled and defined nature of your packs and biceps. Of course, I told them about the kiss; it was the main course. They all oohed and ahhed as I recounted that moment, their eyes sparkling. In return, I got the story about the "strip poker" from four girls talking over themselves. I laughed so hard, and a part of me wished I'd gone with them. I heard tales of boys and girls running out of the room, clothes in hand and bottoms out, with everyone staring. It seemed like everyone had a great night, alas.

After relishing the night we spent together, life seemed to just continue for a literature student like me. After all, I had chapters to write, but the one thing that changed was that we spoke every day after that night. We texted and called each other often. There were also a series of late-night calls that were punctuated with comfortable silences and breathing. No one seemed to want to end these calls, and most times one or both persons just fell asleep.

On  the thursday of the week after , which was in early November, and I remember this because it was getting very cold. You called me after my last class. 

"Done for the day?" you asked.

"Yeah," I replied.

"I want to take you to eat somewhere you've never been to," you said.

"I don't think there's a place I've never been to eat that's around here," I replied.

"Is this place on campus? Off-campus? What do they serve?" I asked.

Your rich laughter came back out through the phone. "Well where's the fun in that?" you said.

"Well, I'd really like to know where we are going and what I'm eating," I replied.

"You're going to have to trust me," you said. "I'll meet you in front of the Architecture lecture hall in 30 minutes."

I agreed, and we ended the call.

I didn't know where you were, but I was at my department, and it wasn't far from the Architecture department. So, I picked up my stuff and started heading there. As I walked to meet you, I wondered where we were headed and what we were going to have that was so special. Somehow, I knew it didn't matter. It could have been anything, but as long as I was spending time with you, it would somehow be worth it.

I got there, but you were nowhere to be found. I stood for a couple of minutes, and I started to get agitated. After a few moments, I saw you approaching from afar. I'd never seen you dressed like this before, as I'd only seen you in informal settings. You were dressed formally—a well-tailored black trouser, a crisp, pristine white shirt now rolled up at the sleeves, with a deep burgundy silk tie adorned with subtle silver stripes. As I saw you from afar, I quickly took stock of how I looked: black flat shoes that had a bow in front,  high-waist black jeans, and a white off shoulder crop top, that had floral patterns.  I also had on the same braids you saw the last time and red lipstick. Not bad, I thought.

When you were just a few paces from me, you broke into a smile that could end wars and said, "Hey, are you ready to go?"