There I was one sunny afternoon in May, riding my pink bike and listening to Pedro Pascal read an essay about love. He wasn't reading it to me. I was aware of the many layers between his voice and my ears. The many recordings it must have taken to get a take worth using. Imagine the editing room where a technician had to splice his good takes and input the canned ads that were needed to make money out of a podcast. But as I listened to his soft yet powerful voice, fully aware of the distance between my ears and the speaker's lips, I still found myself lost in a world outside my own. Lost in the maze of cul-de-sacs and identical houses where I once wished I had lived.

We transport ourselves to another dimension, the worries of the weekdays behind us, our phones ring from messages and calls from friends, family, and workmates, mixed with the noise from the city bustle, but we ignore it with only the two of us on each other’s minds.

We knew it would end. Like the seasons, our feelings were fleeting.
Each year, a different hue, a different kind of feeling.
We knew it since we were young.