There they were, sitting awkwardly beside one another, She didn't talk, and neither did he, The trip was 5 hours long to Paris, It turned out that both had been seated together which was very unfortunate, The tension could be felt in the air, Josh broke the silence by clearing his throat, Lilliane looked out of the window to lessen the burden on her shoulders, "You still keep it don't you." "What on Earth are you talking about?" The ring...You still have it on you" He pointed at her finger, which she hid in an instant, "Oh this, this is from my fiance, I am going to meet him tomorrow, and we are going to have dinner at an expensive hotel, He chuckled bitterly, "Of course you are going to an EXPENSIVE hotel," "Why the sarcasm dear?" She mocked him with a smile, "Oh nothing,just can't forget how much of a golddigger you were, and still are" Her smile fell instantly and turned into a frown, "You were the one who cheated on me and you call me a golddigger?" "Well, you were the reason...If you gave me the time I would never have thought about it but no you wanted to have gold and jewelry to give you pleasure right? I couldn't, so you left" "Who said I left...You left. Stop blaming it on me." "Oh just be quiet, you literally started it," "No, you did!" "No, you did!" "No yo..." "OH FOR CRYING OUT LOUD YOU BOTH DID! NOW SHUT UP AND LET ME SLEEP IN PEACE!" Both looked back and saw a frowning woman with her eyes closed breathing heavily, "We are about to land in a few minutes" The voice came from the speakers as both stopped bickerings and looked the opposite way. "By the way keep it, I don't want it" She handed him the ring, before leaving her seat, He just kept staring.

The Paris skyline shined brighter that night. Maybe it was the 2nd glass of the cheapest rose we could find, maybe it was the perfectly timed sparkle of the Eiffel tower reflecting on the buildings in sight from my balcony. I laid back in my chair, put my feet on the railing, loosely gripping the thin stem of my wine glass and listened to the sounds of the Paris nightlife. My roommate Anis, sat on the floor next to me and leaned her head into the night. The stars were covered by clouds but still, I could feel them shining light upon the dimly lit streets below us. A woman lit a cigarette and it seemed to awaken something within Anis as her own hand seemed to drift to her sweatshirt pocket by its own accord, pulling out a thin, messily rolled cigarette and brought it to her mouth. She put her hand back into her pocket, but it came out empty, so I reached into my own and pulled out a light pink lighter and lit it myself as she breathed in. She offered me one, but I don't smoke so I shook my head and she went back to synchronizing her breaths to that of the woman on the street beneath us. Soon enough this woman was gone and our focus was on a man standing by the bus stop. I looked to my phone for the time, frowned, and hoped the man wasn't hoping for a ride. The buses were long parked and the metro now full of the homeless in chrysalis, trying to escape the harsh reality of night. Anis gave me the look, the one you give when you've had a bit too much wine and you've decided that you're going to be a dumb college student for a moment, when you want to let everything go and ignore the fact that it's 3 am on a Wednesday night, ignore the 9 am calculus class you have in the morning, ignore the four missed facetime calls from your parents that you only ignored because your phone is already on low battery and you did have some wine so you weren't sure if any of your sentences that came out were even coherent anymore and because you decided you would text them in the morning that you were tired and wanted a good night's rest before your calc test the next morning. Anis's eyes lit up as she opened her mouth as wide as she could. “Yoohoo!” she laughed, as we do on nights like this, shouting into the great expanse hoping that someone may answer us back. I followed suit, we let our laughter die, and we waited. We waited for something, for anything to shout back and remind us we are not alone. We waited for the stars to come out form the curtain of clouds and put on for us a show. We waited for random historical figures of the 1920s to come out of the shadows like they did in that Owen Wilson movie. We waited… and waited… and waited… and waited for what could have been months days, minutes, mere seconds until the sound of the balcony door opening took us out of our trance. “Hey could one of you guys give me light, I think I left my lighter at school,” my other roommate Rebecca asked, leaning her forearms on the railings. My eyes losing their fog looked up to her blankly, handed her my lighter, and went back to look at the guy by the bus stop. But, just as quickly as our voices faded into the atmosphere, he was gone.

Admittedly the most peculiar comparison is comparison itself. In a time we're expected to not pair our proses with another for the sake of sound self-awareness and confidence, the alternatively commendable trait is to make a personal mishap seem lesser by asserting that "things could have been worse." For fear of falling too victim to this habit, I slowly began dissecting who and what it was I was comparing myself to in order to bring resolve to my newfound chaotic state. My emotions and peace of mind became the hardest facets to corral; where previously easy to be sifted through I had to make the active decision to take better care, fine-tooth-comb style, in order to keep from what I could only recognize as spiraling. As I noticed a very precise change in not only my thinking but my own self-asserted action, there was no fall into oblivion. It was all figuratively splayed out in front of me, similar to a smorgasbord of battles to choose from, although I was the one who had already done the picking. By the time I had realized the comparison didn't fall within the standards of anyone else, simply that I was in desperate need to make room for all of my emotions, not just the ones that benefited both me and the spectator(s), I had begun to crack another code. One that assumed the tactics of self-care I had avoided in the belief I was detrimental to myself were actually the tactics that kept me feeling like I had something to work for, not to be someone who just works. In lieu of favoring "one over the other," it seemed in all aspects of this dissection in progress that both hands came into play. Though any shred of positivity tends to flatter, my intent was to never feel better about how I was outwardly perceived, more so inward. Given the task at hand, the question presented itself: why not both? On the basis of conflict resolution, whether an actively assumed position or involuntary, to have an idea such as replacing conjunctions in everyday conversation seemed to graze a level of insignificance that was truly not even worth considering. Nevertheless, the idea hung in the air long enough for me to encourage myself that any step, no matter the size, was worth taking and I began the test of switching "but" for "and" in order to better understand why it was so impossible to live soundly with my own attest. Instead of negating one feeling for another, by suggesting "and" was making room for both statements. In the event I habitually said "but" I made sure to write down in what context I used it and how to obliterate use of the word altogether. Where I found most difficult was at work: the probe of most of my tendencies to push emotion to the side, only to make room for what was in my best interest as an employee, not a human being. The sound presented itself as excusatory and I tended to grow increasingly angry when I caught myself using "but" to negate any further protest of one happening over another. My intent was to bring myself into perspective less than formerly bringing other concerns into the light. To focus more on what it is I was projecting inward vs outward became more of a task than changing a pre-determined reaction from within. To suddenly welcome anything and everything I began feeling in place of what used to be a constant consideration for everyone else first and foremost felt both like a wave of extra information and the opening of floodgates, neither one accommodating the other. Eventually, the desire to keep everyone else at bay to not concern otherwise grew heavier and I felt an off switch power itself. Where I had assumed the acknowledge of my discontent with myself was only available to those I had told, my curiosity peaked in wondering if anyone could visually recognize something within me was missing. Comprehending the obvious came faster than the active thought to accept both and multiple emotions as they came, not hiding one on a shelf to dust off another. Where only the best is presented to those willing to share, the aspects of what we are not are what allow the "and's" to surpass the "but's." To expect those onlooking from the other end of a lens or the other end of text to acknowledge a piece of my puzzle got lost in transit as doing the opposite of what I was being so hard on myself for in the first place. Simply expecting them to put their pieces to the side to help you look for yours was going to result in no one's puzzle getting finished. The feat I had to ignore as an obstacle was that this sort of thinking is what invested me in this journey. By spending more time worried about something noticeably wrong in you by others, you are keeping yourself from tending to your "and's" for someone else's "but's."

On a cold November morning, after attending an exhilarating youth conference in Strasbourg, I was on a train on my way to Paris. My heartbeat was mimicking the rhythm of the rails. I was only 19 years old and blessed with the opportunity to visit one of the most beautiful cities in the world, Ville des Lumière or ‘the city of lights'. As a young woman from India, raised in a traditional family, most of my choices were made for me. This was my first step into an independent life and it was all very unnerving. An hour into the journey I met a young man who, to my surprise, was also from India. We exchanged life stories as the beautiful French landscapes of freshly cut grass, fauna and wineries painted our windows as they raced by. He invited me for a walking tour in Paris taking place in a few hours, telling me how we would explore the city guided by a tour manager who would narrate to us its dynamic history. Possessing an inherent love of the past, I readily agreed. After reaching Paris I rushed with my heavy suitcase to find the subway and caught the train that lead to my accommodation. Reaching just in time to leave my luggage, I ran back to the street and caught a bus to Saint Michel, where we were supposed to assemble for the tour. On my way, I realized that I was so intent on not being late, I navigated easily through an alien city with a language I didn't speak. A little proud, I smiled at my ability to adapt so quickly to an environment so different from home. Indeed, I was growing up. The tour was very enjoyable as I carefully observed the interiors of Paris painted with flora and Gothic architecture. We were walking along the Seine, the river which holds the spirit of Paris within it, when the sun was engulfed by thick clouds. Soon, I could feel icy droplets of rain on my skin. Each raindrop felt like a sting, reminding me that I was turning twenty soon. We ended the tour in Tuileries Garden, as the sun interrupted the rain, blessing us with its warmth. My friend and I then walked to the Eiffel Tower. Coming from India, a country with a rich heritage, I firmly believe that historic monuments that have witnessed the ravages of war and tranquility of peace are the most precious. They have a story to tell. And so, I always felt that the Eiffel Tower was merely a metallic structure unworthy of praise, much like the French did in earlier times. But I was wrong. The Eiffel Tower emitted magnificence. It was like an anchor of the city, holding it from sinking into the blue skies. We sat on a lonely bench placed on a pavilion just behind the tower, surrounded by green trees slowly rustling in the cold air of the twilight. I was evaluating the photographs I took of the Eiffel on my phone, when my companion reminded me to appreciate the moment I was in. “But we have been here for over an hour” I replied, “there is nothing new to-“ I stopped short in my words as I looked up once again at the majestic tower. It was lit up with a golden light, almost as if with a thousand candles, against the backdrop of the slowly brewing night sky. Suddenly, I could not feel the chill on the tip of my nose or the cold air in my lungs. I felt warm from the glow of the Eiffel, as if someone had tucked me in a cozy blanket with a hot cup of tea. I went to sleep that day feeling like a changed person. On my last day in Paris, I visited the celebrated Louvre. Its high ceilings that housed tremendous artwork made me feel small and insignificant. I visited the intriguing Mona Lisa painting and felt that I could never be as famed as its maker, Leonardo Da Vinci. So what was the point of even trying? The best or worst part about accepting mediocrity was the comfort it provided. I found myself walking once again towards the Tuileries garden behind the Louvre, but this time on a warm sunny day bustling with people and energy. Yet somehow, I was more alone than ever. I felt that independence was equal to isolation. I was walking beside an intricate fountain in the garden, when my melancholic thoughts were interrupted by an old man, just like the sun had interrupted the rain in the very same place on my first day in Paris. The man was in his mid-sixties with grey hair and a thick beard. He muttered something to me in French and grinned. My first instinct was to walk away but his compelling eyes held me back. I looked at him questioningly, signaling to him that I didn't understand French. He happily repeated in English with a thick French accent, “Are you thinking deeply?” I was shocked. He continued, “You should not indulge in your thoughts so deeply, enjoy the present”. He walked away immediately after, but I was transfixed. It was as if God had come to explain to me that the meaning of independence was not isolation, but the pure enjoyment of moments in life you have created for yourself. In those few seconds at the conclusion of my sojourn, I was finally ready to embrace my 20 year old independent self.