By Nia Mahmud

I will remember this precipice for the rest of my life. The ledge we stumbled upon. Woods full of movement; us steady in comparison. So unprepared there was mud in my loafers and a blister on my heel. I’d never felt an ache so compelling. Your hands on the plastic piano keys while I’m on the phone call, the voice on the other end saying that’s such pretty music. I stepped in the creek. The birds were a witness. We heard every note to their tune. The voice on the other end asks where is that? I look down and I am teetering into gray carpet, backpedaling into pine trees. I say, I don’t know. I say, I’ve never been here before.

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Nia Mahmud (she/her) is a writer in her third year of college. She has been published by The Citron Review, Five Minutes, Pomona Valley Review, and others. She’s passionate about reading, storytelling, and Taco Bell runs with friends. You can find her on Instagram at @nia.m.writer .