The strangers approached the dimly lit restaurant almost in unison, barely aware that the other was near. It was the coldest night of the year, and a gust of wind pushed them from the freezing sidewalk into the entryway—as though neither of them truly wanted to step inside. The atmosphere of the place was quite lovely: Couples, both young and old, laughing and chatting, their voices muffled by the hustle and bustle of the waiters, the clattering of forks against the china, an

Kingston, Canada. 2019. I’m riding in the back of the taxi. I’m on my way to the city bus station, one step closer to seeing my family. The last few weeks of teachers' college have been draining, and I’m thankful for this break. My mind is bursting at the seams, and I need a breather. As I look out the window and the rainy streets, my thoughts jump from one to the next like a spinning wheel in motion. The driver, a quiet Caucasian-looking man seemingly in his 40s, drives in s

The first time I ever tried English scones was in December 2019, when my mom and I went to High Tea. We were at this fancy, ancient, British-style castle in Eastern Ontario. Picture a lavish colonial dining hall, floor-to-ceiling windows, and, through these windows, far off in the distance, a beautiful landscape under a blanket of snow. On the table in front of you, a three-storey silver tray with pastel-coloured, melt-in-your mouth pastries. They all look so enchanting you d

You're writing an exam, but all you can do is keep looking at the clock, acutely aware of just how quickly its hands are moving. You feel the dread build up in you, and, when you finally look up, you're in disbelief: There is just no way that this much time has gone by. You try to focus, but your attention is consumed by the unforgiving device on the wall. Which, you know—makes it hard to focus on what really matters. And that's how life goes, it seems. On the morning of my e

I wrote this brevity piece on the train, entranced by the rehearsed movements of the woman sitting diagonal to me.

It was at the old ripe age of four that I wrote my first story. Here's a photo of me at that age to illustrate the tiny tornado of love...