I think I fell in love this summer. Every time I was embraced by arms of dusk orange and pink hues, I felt safe and warm. I watched as the clouds performed a different show every day, twisting and turning. When the sun set below the horizon, I knew it would be a good night because I was met by a different view each time.
While I had always appreciated its outward beauty, I hardly ever paid attention to the sky. I would ignore the sun when it had just come out of hiding or right when it was about to grace the other half of the world. That is, until this year.
When I rode my bike every evening, I would be greeted with a different set of clouds, shapes, patterns and colors — but always the same sky. Seeing it gave me butterflies in my stomach. It made me giddy, and I couldn’t stop the smile from creeping up on my face. Some days, it would only be the sun and the sky, and on others I could barely see the sun as it was wrapped in the blankets of clouds, painting enchanting colors I can’t even begin to describe.
As the summer days passed, I would become more and more excited to go on bike rides because I didn’t want to miss what image the sky would offer that evening. I knew if I missed it, I’d never see that sky again because the sky never offers the same view twice. I fell in love with this excitement. I fell in love with the anticipation of what the sky would look like that night.
No matter what happens, the sky would be there to start the day off with me and would be there at night when I went to sleep. In a year of never-ending change, I became attached to this consistency offered by the sky because I knew it would be present no matter what, and I wouldn’t have to sit around waiting for it to show. Even with billions of people in this world, at the end of the day, it felt just like me and the sky.
In some ways, staring at the sky felt like a dream. I found myself thinking that there was no way the sky could be so comforting, so glorious, so alluring. But then I would look and get lost in its ocean of surreal colors that slowed the world and blocked everything else out during the intimate moments between me and the sky.
Despite my obvious adoration for the sky, I was partly embarrassed to admit it at first. It felt silly imagining that what I was in love with wasn’t yet a person but rather something intangible. But at the same time, it reassures me knowing that everyone has someone — or in my case, something — they love.
While everyone has their someone, I’m lucky enough to have the sky. This thought warms me.
MiC Columnist Hannah Nguyen can be reached at hannahnn@umich.edu.