“Breaking news! Studies show that the new ‘fifth’ season of the year may be the worst effect of climate change yet! Is the end near?” 

Sinking into the lumpy embrace of my dorm bed, I begin to miss my past. The simpler times of childhood when our sense of self and the world around us was characterized by dumb little questions: What’s your favourite colour? How’s the weather today? What’s your favourite season? I chuckle and whisper to myself, quiet enough to not wake my roommates: “Green. Lovely. Spring.” Oh, how I miss spring. I press my face against the window and close my eyes to imagine what sunshine could feel like. Perhaps I could pry my imagination wide enough and forcefully dig out some joy, even just a crumb from the absurdity that is playing pretend. Despite being January, the window is eerily warm. I look out to the soot-covered concrete jungle that is the city and tell myself that this is the new norm. Raging storms, pouring acid rain, and filthy gray clouds that cover every crevice of the sky no matter night or day. The air is hot, humid, and filled with despair. How could I possibly look forward to growing up in a world so broken? 

It’s only the first year. I assure myself, knowing well it’s only going downhill from here. Regardless, I sit up in my bed and hold my knees to my chest, desperately trying to paint a future worth looking forward to without feeling like I’m lying to myself—but nothing feels real anymore. What started off as invigorating excitement for new friends, new knowledge, and a new self has been ruined by the weather. The weather? It sure sounds dumb trying to blame my inadequacies on the goddamn weather, but both the violent thunder in my head and flashes of lighting outside simply make it too difficult to stay positive about what could be. 

Shaking off the fog, I lie down to rest, instinctively reaching for my phone, and immediately scroll through the viscous stream of dopamine makers. TikTok, then Youtube, Instagram, then TikTok again. Why take the initiative to make a change when perfection is at your fingertips? After all, spring, summer, and fall only last three months in total now. The rest? The rest is just the numbing misery of needing to shelter from the horrors of climate change and the ever-pressing fate of global demise. 

Hours pass by, and soon, the theoretical sunrise comes. Of course, the weather doesn’t allow any light to shine my way, but I’m okay. Right? I’m okay. Right? I yawn while beginning to spiral about the state of my okayness. To be perfectly honest, I have no idea about the state of the present, how I feel, and what I’m doing—what I think is all a blur. Being someone who has always made a plan, the absence of certainty really scares me. Looking to the east corner of my bed from the pool of tears in which I lie, I see 8:30. The sun has risen. I stretch my aching soul and make my way toward the mirror. Smeared mascara, lopsided blush, and faded eyeliner. A sight that makes my eyes sore. I thought 18 was supposed to be beautiful. Despite my reflection, I wash my face with the viral salicylic acid cleanser that’s all the hype right now. The icy water splashing on my face wakes me up from my digital slumber. This is the real world, I tell myself.

I walk cautiously back to my room and catch a glimpse of something sticking its ear out from my perfectly organized shelf of fantasy novels. My photo album. Not the rainbow-coloured app on my phone but the actual physical book that thankfully exists in the solid realm. I make the best decision in a long time and flip it open, not to the first page but to the middle. To the last picture I gently taped in with my galaxy-themed washi. My grandfather. His smile is so bright that, at the moment, I forget that the light outside exists. Oh, how I miss my grandfather. I begin to cry. Real tears this time, not the plastic stuff that superficially comes out when yawning in bed after gluttonously fast content consumption. Quickly, I catch my tears before they drip onto the page and wipe my eyes. The picture is clear now. My grandfather was watering seedlings he’d planted last spring. 

Suddenly, I see the meaning of it all. I see who I am and what I ought to be. I brush my fingertips across the pressed leaf beside the picture of my grandfather and me. I am a seedling. I smile. In this cruel world, life still grew, and flora and fauna continued to thrive in the face of uncertainty. That lawn of crocuses we had never would have known if a tsunami would come the next day, an earthquake the day after, or what utter destruction would follow the onset of a fifth season—such a sudden occurrence that, even now, we don’t have a name for it. Despite not ever knowing what was to come, the crocuses grew. They didn’t care if the world ended tomorrow. Hell, they didn’t even care that the world might very well end the second they sprouted, because they grew regardless. 

I bolt into my storage closet and dig frantically past the cobwebs and textbooks and find my sunlamp. The last thing my family gave me before it all came crashing down. As the lamp flickers on, I press my hand together and thank Mother Earth for giving me family, life, and the strength to be resilient. Smiling like the twin of my past, I begin to organize the closet. Just as everything may possibly get so much worse, they might very well become so much better.