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As I handed him my writing, a part of my heart started to ache. Not because I was handing him my very own writing, a piece I never really shared, but because it was him who was judging my work. He grabbed it and stuffed it in his book bag, one that I often found cute. I remember him thanking me for giving him a chance to proofread my work and saying that he wouldn't take long to edit my short story. I was fascinated by him. Someone who was smart, misunderstood by a lot of people, and had a hard family life.  The minute he told me he was having a hard time in his home, with his parents fighting and taking it out on him, my arms reached out. I wanted to hug him in the moment. But would he accept me? I couldn't risk it, tucking my arms away. The only time I ever got close to him was when we met. I was heading out of class on my first day back in school. I had a hard time making and keeping real friends, but just like any other fanfiction story, I bumped into him. "I'm so sorry!" He cried, as if it were his fault. At lunch, we met again, seeing him sit next to me and a bunch of others. He was neat, someone who loved tea and baking. Someone I really liked.  As time went on, we exchanged foods and baked goods. He'd be the perfect boyfriend, I thought—someone who'd bake me brownies and bring them to school for me. Someone who'd see a coffee shop and think of me. I remember walking into his class and seeing him smile and hand me a coffee. "I remembered you said you'd like vanilla-flavored coffee, so I got you some!" He said, handing it over. And boy, was it good.  I loved him. I really did. I think, from the moment I laid eyes on him and from the moment we bumped into each other, I always had. His brown, chocolatey hair, his hazel eyes, and his smile will be sketched in my mind for ages. And even though we never dated, let alone expressed how we felt about each other, there will always be a part of my heart left for him. 

about my bio graphy

With a surgical turn of my wrist, I position the front-facing camera so that the end of the world is in full view. I'm in the center of the frame, standing in a polished kitchen, glazed with perfume and peach powders. It's the second month of quarantine. The once-warm tones of my apartment now smear together like the gooey brushstrokes of Edvard Munch, but I think my scream is quieter than the one he painted; it melts behind my chest, stretching out a single thought: I am so damn lonely. I dab my phone's flat screen to take the picture. It shows me pulling a bottle of wine close, but I never actually opened it. A book I read years ago sits on the countertop, as if I bothered to give its pages another glance tonight. I've tricked myself into appearing happy enough, so I post the image to my online profile with a leisurely caption. The next morning, I decide to seek a little company. The coffee shop is open for take-out. I brush my hair back and withdraw from the wilting walls of my cell. The coil of cars at the drive-thru roll along steadily. I start to picture what sort of bodies are packed in each vehicle. I see a van, probably stuffed with kids, and a father with scratchy eyes. I imagine that it's a couple waiting in the blue sedan a few cars back. He props his head on his partner's shoulder reading aloud from a brochure for the next vacation they'll take. A bundle of scarves is driving the Buick. I wonder how she putters about at home, ticking her evenings away. What might she have said to me last night? “Nonsense!” I bet. “It's nonsense for you to be spending so much effort on another lousy portrait. Wash your face. Call your mother.” I feel calm in my little community. It's a pity to have to inch ahead, only to vanish again in the neutral tones of isolation: pandemic news, boredom with marriage, collapse into childcare, delays at work, and the dense nothing for the rest of us. Once I reach the shop's window, my face inflates with such joy, the barista's eyebrows pop upward. She recites my order and says it'll be ready in a minute. “Sounds good! And how are you...‘Jasmine'? Any plans for the weekend?” I can tell she's smiling behind her facemask by the way her eyes crease. “Not much. Not sure what I can do.” “Pick up another hobby, I guess.” She laughs and agrees. There's a pause while she tilts out of view and returns with my drink. “Here you are!” she announces. I take it, thank her, and pull forward. I approach the exit lane, I have a sip, and then—I decide to tug the steering wheel right and snap my car into a parking space. I forgot to tip. I slip on a facemask I had tossed in the center console, swing open the door, and march to the drive-thru window. Jasmine pokes her head out when I get there. “Is something wrong?” I stuff my hand in my pocket and pull out a couple of bills. “I didn't leave a tip.” Jasmine bounces back. “Oh!” her eyes go round. “That's very kind of you!” Nervous now, I quickly cram the cash in the small container perched on the sill and hold my hand up to wave “goodbye” as I peel away. There are just a handful of paces left until I reach my car. After each step, my sneaker skips off the pavement. For a moment, I'm expanding. My gaze slides left and right, skimming for anyone who might be looking for a greeting. The apartment building is just seven minutes away. It's been a small day. Still, a good one.

Well, no one really understands how things are right now for me I'm broke, hungry, cold and exhausted. My comfort, coffee, yet no home to live in. But the one thing I have with me that doesn't grow weary, is the strength within that when brought out, calms the fiercest storms. I will win a prize tomorrow. One that I'll be proud of My first prize. Until then, adiós amigo and pray for my success.

The salmon fillet is the length of my wingspan. Have you ever tried to find good fish in rural Minnesota? That's a trick question. There is fantastic fish. Right outside. In the lake. Super fresh. Catch it. A little lemon. Panko bread crumbs. Delicious. But that gets old after several months. So instead I have this giant fillet that I had to drive thirty minutes both ways to get. Bobby's Flay's cookbook is lying open on the counter next to me. There's a vinaigrette distilling or something with peppers and capers. Already there's been an olive oil spill. A wet spot on the counter where the dog jumped up to steal a piece of broccolini (which is also difficult to find in rural Minnesota). I'm drinking coffee while I do this. At four thirty in the afternoon. Time doesn't matter. I hope this is good. I haven't eaten yet today. I'm buzzing with too much caffeine and not enough food. Before quarantine I could barely cook. I ate everything on the go. Bagels and coffee in the morning. Whatever was close to the theatre at lunch. Takeout late at night for dinner. I could do eggs and rice and ground beef and Seamless. But now there is so much time! It's family recipe week or vegan week or church basement hotdish week. My dad taught me how to pan fry hamburgers. My mom sends me blurry pictures of old recipes she comes across. I make adjustments to the recipes on mommy blogs. I add meat or butter or whatever. I follow TikTok accounts of people who just recreate foods from anime. I learn drop dumplings and pie crusts. I start cutting my tomatoes with a bread knife. If and when I go back to work I won't have time for the things I'm cooking now. But it's nice to do if you have the time. Which I do. I'm out at the lake with my dad, who's retired. I cook him stroganoff or potato soup and we eat it and watch tv. We watch the world keep turning even though we've stopped. My accent gets thicker. I talk more slowly. I've relearned how to be midwestern. Storms pass and I assess the damage to the trees. I remember how to bait a hook. I drive a car again. I dip my feet in the water. I sit on the dock for hours with books I've been meaning to read. And I cook. An email sits in my phone which sits in my pocket. Usually I read emails so fast. It's necessary for my job. But I don't have time to read it as I pick fresh vegetables. Can't look at it at the butcher's. Don't email and drive. Can't read it when I'm wrestling with this giant fillet or prepping the vegetables or trying to remember all the spices in that great orzo recipe. So there's an email on my phone in my pocket informing me that the show I was hired on was postponed again. That March had turned to February had turned to May of 2021. That's a scary thought. But the oven is ready, and I have a fish to cook. Just a truly massive fish.

You say you want to find Love; you say you want to have romance What does really love mean for you? It's a non-cliché question Don't give a cliché definition, its worn out Don't be a stereotype, it's boring Imagine love like you really want it to be, like a gift you have not yet unwrapped. What a surprise to come! Is Love the gift of another person? Is love a magic potion with 12 roses and fresh petals? Could you give love without expectation? Love could be a delicate feather, ready to fly away If you don't pay attention to it Love is freedom of expression, freedom to be yourself No limits No regrets No second thoughts What is Romance to you? Romance is the child of Love When all is open and free and sincere Love is a cup of coffee with fresh cream on top Drink your cup of love and enjoy. The answer to love question Love is like a chocolate Again No limits No regrets No second thoughts A chocolate with nuts and almonds Don't give a cliché definition, its worn out Don't be a stereotype, it's boring Imagine love like you really want it to be You are the best companion when I feel down Maybe you are confused To whom I am referring A chocolate bar is ready to be eaten Like Love, sweet and tender

Long walks- an everyday habit I picked up from my father-are my thought process. My calm down. My pump up. My escape. My whatever-I-need them to be. Growing up, the first place I was allowed to walk solo was to the neighborhood coffee shop. I remember the first sip of my sister's chai from there. Ew. What a weird notion that I would grow to love it. However, as I was frequently in need of a walking destination, I found my space there. (Although, it would be years before I gave chai the second chance it deserves.) Introduced to mocha granitas, coffee disguised in frozen chocolate milk, my current coffee addiction began. This, by itself, is a strange idea to reflect on. What has become so much of my daily routine, my work history, my fascination, and my hobby began with such a simple foundation. Such a seemingly small thing at the time that grew into so much of my life. See, the strange part though, is that the same can be said of my friendships. I know, right? Like I'm really about to compare my growth into coffee addiction to my growth as a human… (I am though, so just hang tight.) One of the most common things I heard as I prepared to leave for college was that I would always love my high school friends but that eventually we would leave each other behind…that my “best” friends would be made in college. Because that's “when people really start to figure out who they are.” Um, okay. I mean, don't get me wrong- I've met several of my best friends post high school. But, the majority of my closest friendships were formed during those high school years, and yes, we spread out far and wide geographically. (And hell, wait do I even know who I am now? Do people ever really feel like they're finished figuring themselves out, and they're just like chill, yeah, done growing, bro?) So, anyways, here's the concept of strong foundation again. As I transitioned to college, my coffee order began to change with me. For starters, frozen coffee was not included in my meal plan. And there were always late nights studying or freshman mornings that required just a little more kick. Maybe my coffee could be a little stronger. A little less milk. In addition, coffee walks remained my escape. And depending on the day, I could jam to the newest playlist my bestie had sent or bring a book and get lost in one of my favorite adventures. All with my comforting coffee in my hand. And eventually, I found love in just black cold brew. What a radical change from my initial order, but the love was still there. The way I came to drink and work with and find comfort in my brew changed but never the love for the brew. So many humans that I love I have seen change their order, their interests, their hobbies, their goals and aspirations, their fears, and their hopes. In those early college years, coming home to an old coffee hangout with a new order, I could only wonder if the relationships I had formed had changed too. It was a hollow fear. Although we were already far from being the same people that we once were, the original love remained. My friendships and my coffee have unquestioningly known the worst of my days. And both have only gained strength through my growth. Now, however, in my late twenties, I would never argue that I no longer know the person I was. The person that somehow stumbled upon those small, sweet moments that turned into the strongest of foundations. I can point out that I am no longer the same, nor am I proud of many parts of my past, but I still know that person, she is a foundation as well, of who I am today. I am often asked when dating to describe myself. To lay myself out on the line. But who do you want to know? I can tell you who I am in this moment, who I used to be, how I hope to grow, and yet, who I am remains difficult to define. I am fluctuating. Mornings that I have work I'm a chug-my-cold-brew-as-fast-as-I-can kind of person. Casual mornings with known or new humans, I'm more of a sit back and sip it kind of person. Often my coffee comes on adventures with me, giving me comfort when I'm lost in a story. Frequently, a coffee means a coffee and walk. Sometimes, it's an oat milk dirty chai kind of moment. And others, it's a black, so very black, add a double shot day. It's a fluctuation. With a basic, strong foundation- my love for the brew. My love for coffee is honest but not always simple. Humans are the same. We're forever fluctuating in who we are, each moment an addition to our own definition. And sometimes, we are fortunate enough to collide with another human, in such a small way and create this foundation for love that lasts through the ages.

The influx of regret first hit me by the Plague Column: an exquisitely ornate Baroque memorial with embellished gold iconography. I had been in Vienna for fifteen hours, and the toll of isolation was bearing down on me with a harsh frigidity, instilling in me something I had forgotten in lieu of my wanderlust: I cannot thrive alone. To ache with such despair beneath a bleak, passionless January sky is profoundly demoralising; the absence of light is a sickness to our nature. My limbo was the the Graben, lonesome in its romantic crowds and chilling in its creamy, mint intricacies. I hope I would have escaped this desolation some other way had I not, in my freezing endeavours heard the faint warmth of a jazz piano, followed distantly by the animated vibrations of a double bass. Driven delirious by solitude, something within me was galvanised by such familiarity, and propelled me towards the sound. As if rushing me onwards, the wind began to curl more bitterly, and the air ebb more icily. At first I couldn't find it; the jumbled letters 'JAZZLAND' seemingly lead to an empty, alleyway shrouded in gloom. It was the glowing of a distant stranger's cigarette that suggested there was life beyond the fuzzy darkness, and as dusk gave way to shadows, the jazz grew stronger, drawing me closer. A door marked the end of the trail - a door that murmured with a muffled clamour, thin lines of light seeping through the cracks. A door that, upon pushing open, flings you into a soul-igniting, smokey, vintage effervescence, where jazz drips from the ceiling like rich honey and a golden glow emanates from the lowly-lit lamps. Only yards away, a pianist, double bassist, saxophonist and trumpeter were melting languidly into the groove of 'Fever', perfectly synchronised in their musical whims. I dwell on these happenings, because they illustrate that in the ardent nature of curiosity, we are distracted from the despondency of negative emotion. Fascination, and to a further extent, purpose, drive us. To be aimless is to be lost, and to be lost is to despair. When I arrived in Vienna, the dream was to wander, to gaze and to be enamoured in an enchanting European city. It was to wait for the charm rather than to seek it out. Only in retrospect do I see how senseless that ambition was - if it can even be referred to as an ambition. As humans we crave purpose and destination, henceforth why curiosity is so important and inherent to us. The anonymity of solo-travelling, and the lack of community can feel stagnant, and without the effort to forge a path we are left drifting. However, to actively seek out or create life's charms is revolutionary, not only in solo-travel, but everywhere. Putting this into practise engulfed me into a deep affection for Vienna, and brought my attention to its most captivating intricacies. Upon rising in the morning, a destination was to be discussed and decided amongst the party (myself and a mustard notebook), and left unscheduled so as not to vanquish the unrestricted spontaneity of discovering a city alone. With a purpose, my meanderings of the city did not feel idle, but exploratory and fulfilling. January's greyed skies became silvery and pearl-like; its bitter air became wintry and mystically misty, and its bare trees became gothically alluring. Most frequently, I would indulge in Viennese coffee culture, and take myself to the cafes where red-velvet encases the walls, and delightful jazz floats through from the bar all the way to the cosy fire crackling by the oak table of reading material. One might argue that there is something aimless about lounging in a coffeehouse for mornings on end, admiring the fresh sprinkling of snow from frosted windows, however, the curiosity does not stop there. It is everywhere, from perusing the quaintly stamped menu, to observing the eccentric characters swanning about, to spilling lucid words into your mustard notebook, to deciding on the next destination - be it the clock museum or the honey boutique. To be purposeless is to be lost; it only births nihilism, and futility. However, to be curious is to unveil a whole realm of delights. To seek the charm in life is to stumble on knowledge, to unveil destinations and to delve into the earth. As humans, it is our purpose to be curious.

I cradled the ticket in my hand as I watched the dust motes dance to the silence of the fading sunshine. The tracks shifted gently somewhere far off down the line in the crumbling remnants of what once was a strict European station. Swallowing my heart, I saw the café nearby housed patrons that came as quickly as they went; but hidden in my memories, a family once sat united. Even if remembering meant knowing what I could not have, I still held to it like a petal on a flower. But with the rustle of wind as a train tore onto the platform, the ticket slipped from my fingers as the memory faded beyond reach. Once again, the hole in my chest etched its way out, and hazy eyes followed the dying scream as the train departed. I fixed my shoelace; tying my life together in a flimsy bow. Finally, I sighed and stood unsheathing my sword, ready to face a world full of people. Me? I walked alone. The café held smells that made my nose twitch and being jump in excitement. The dessert display contained a wild array of textures – the shattering, airy crunch of meringue, and the softer ones of glazed jams and gleaming chocolates. Pastries with rolling bubbles and cooling air pockets steamed, causing a tsunami of desire to churn within my mouth. My hand reached for the lightweight (but not brittle) treats before my brain could catch up and shout furious instructions that lead me to a table isolated far off in the back. Not even the sun dared to shine as I sat in personal punishment, waiting for another train to arrive. The pennies clumsily scattered on the table were barely enough for a new ticket. I couldn't afford to eat. It felt as if rough hands had grabbed me and forced me back into a casket. Without a word, the lid slammed silencing my last hope, and my rumbling stomach served as a dying protest. Every shaky breath bought me one more moment, and the longer I fought, the less appealing the chocolate drizzled delicacies appealed. Even then, I held my breath to stifle the temptations caging me in. My lungs strained against the thin air; however, the tight darkness choked me as it seeped into my chest. The only option was to gasp like a dying man. It burned and thumped through my veins in a complete reversal of how breathing is supposed to work. Glassy eyes searched for a lifeboat to cling to, but nobody was coming. The waitress bustled, preparing a coffee for a woman in clothes too smart to be riding a train. A man sat hunched over a paper and pen, resembling a tart engorged with custard. And a boy just like me with dreary features, and a worn-down attitude slouched at a table picking at the ghost of his meal. The minute hand of a clock ticked its way full circle, and even with the continuous reminder of the fluidity of time, the world no longer spun. Like tremors, it began as a twitch in my nose, and soon the horrible monstrosity of nature was upon us. A sneeze so grand the table's napkins swirled into a hurricane, but still, not a soul turned. I blessed myself, but the room swallowed the noise, and I realised then that I hadn't heard my voice since the last blue moon. Instead, the café's radio murmured like T.V static. A blaze of light animated the brick that connected me to an alternate reality, and as if it could tell that cotton clogged my throat, it alerted me of a notification. The phone was a false hope, for no wires trailed from the base that led to the outside world. Once again, my shoulders caved in like a sandcastle overrun by waves. I was an addict for human contact, needing the sweet morphine to quell the craze pinching my brain. It hurt as if nails were trying to claw me apart. Exiting the store in a flicker of a moment, I stood by the tracks and gazed down the line. My pennies were replaced by the purchase of a new ticket, but this one was strangled between fingers, trapping buried memories within the crinkles. In my ears, a million tiny whispers echoed like a heartbeat, but home was an ocean away and as old as stone. I was close –a few beats off– but like muscle memory, I still knew my way back. The incoming train creaked and cringed in a sweltering welcome, and with stilted steps, I clambered aboard. A crooked man resembling a screw stamped my ticket, and my head fell back like a weighted anchor. The damp scent of mildew and rotting fabric swamped the atmosphere in a thick blanket, but just knowing that I was returning to a place that blazed brightly with laughter diluted the stench. I surrendered to the massive hulk of horsepower; to the chains and rigs that ran on the energy of a single piece of coal. No matter how often the cables would break, or the gears ceased, the machine learned to function, just as people learned to move on; learned to get by with every chip and mark. It's not quite right. There are broken pieces, missing pieces, and sharp edges that still draw blood. It's strange, unique, and filled with tragedy; but, it's the belief that the machine still functions despite itself.