I tell myself I’ll walk just 15 minutes around the block—a mountain walk isn’t worth it on a dark, rainy evening. But at 9:13 p.m., I step outside and instantly see a streak of fiery orange splayed across the sky. Without thinking, I sprint across the grassy school field, the damp grass cool beneath my feet. The closer I get, the harder it is to admire. My adrenaline propels me back across the grass to the footpath, as I set out for the mountain. My feet pound against the concrete as classical music swirls in my ears. Two minutes later, I’m at the base of the mountain, already breathless.
I glance to my right—the Sky Tower stands against the greying horizon. Has the sunset already slipped away? Quickening my pace, I climb the hill. At the roundabout, a faint glimmer of orange winks through, dulled by the glare of streetlights. I switch from Mozart to Rufus Du Sol and start up the steepest path, my calves burning.
Halfway up, I’m tempted to slow down, to take it easy—after all, this walk was supposed to be about unwinding. There will always be more sunsets. But I can’t resist the pull of the summit. My feet move before my thoughts can catch up. I check my phone: 9:24 p.m. Almost there. By 9:26, I’ve reached the top.
The orange has deepened now, stretched across the clouds in bold, uneven strokes—like the sky couldn’t decide whether to hold the light or let it slip away. The shapes of the clouds are like scattered brushstrokes smudged with intensity. I pause the music, letting a surrounding silence settle in. My heart pounds in my chest and body until it blends with the distant hum of the city. The low growl of cars, the faint rush of tires meeting wet roads. A light breeze brushes my cheeks, cool and soft.
I snap a photo and send it to that boy I like. Then I sit, cross-legged on the concrete path, and breathe. The fresh air fills my lungs, and I let the stillness wrap around me. Sometimes, the rainy days gift the prettiest sunsets.
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