There will be no record of the darkness beneath the light of summer. Not one photograph or video will be left behind to speak of how I truly spent this season. For all but me, the memories will grow hazy: the coloured tile floors; the nurses' voices and squeaking sneakers; the scents of soap, medicine, and identical dinners reheating in the 4th-story kitchen.
I can't pretend I planned my vacation tis way. Someday, there won't exist a single picture, nor a phone number, to prove where I am right now. But there are still missing patches in the garden where flowers that once smiled were snipped to decorate my hospital room; layers of dust and misuse over my bedroom I should be sleeping in; and a disturbingly pristine bucket list, lacking scribbles, checkmarks or wrinkles.
I'll never bury who I was, where I lived or the memories I made this summer. Unusual as they are, I wouldn't give my experiences for the world. I'm not going to hide parts of my story, like the day we blew bubbles in the garden, waving our wands to release our worries - it was spheres of soap flying through the air to create a whimsical heaven. Or the countless games of Scattegories we played around the hard wooden table, and the shy way she smiled when she won.
I'll move on from this place. There will be summertime leftover to bask in, and years of summers to come. Cameras and conversations won't bring back the secrets of this season, but I will not forget. I see a long journey ahead, and I need every piece of my own history to begin.