By: Dharaneeswar Nina Mallory hated New Year’s Eve. It wasn’t just the clamor of confetti cannons or the glassy-eyed toasts to new beginnings. It was the unspoken obligation to turn the page, to pretend that the next twelve months would be different just because the calendar said so. To her, the start of the year felt less like a fresh beginning and more like a spotlight shining on her mistakes, failures, and regrets, daring her to fix what had already broken. The city streets gleamed with melted snow that night, reflecting string lights and flashing “2025” banners in golden puddles. Couples huddled under umbrellas, laughter curling like smoke in the frigid air. Nina hugged her coat tighter and tried not to notice. She kept her head down, boots crunching against patches of ice, as she walked past a throng of strangers gathered outside the neighborhood pub. A neon sign buzzed in the window: Make Resolutions. Make Memories. She snorted at the irony. Her mind drifted back to last New Year’s Eve. She had sat on the same worn sofa in her apartment, scribbling resolutions in a journal: Call Mom more often. Drink less. Finally finish that novel. By February, the journal had been stuffed in a drawer, forgotten among overdue bills and receipts from takeout dinners. She hadn’t called her mom. She hadn’t stopped drinking. And the novel? Its pages were still as blank as her resolve. Nina’s phone buzzed in her pocket. She hesitated before glancing at the screen. A text from her brother. Hey, what are you up to? Thought about Dad today. Call if you need. She shoved the phone back into her pocket. The ache that came with his name was one she had spent the past year trying to ignore. Her father, who used to make the worst New Year’s toast—always the same joke about resolutions being “just wish lists for procrastinators.” He’d died five years ago, but the loss still hit her like a sudden chill, unexpected and biting. Turning the corner to her apartment, her boot caught on a patch of uneven pavement, and she stumbled, catching herself on a lamppost. She let out a breath, her cheeks burning with embarrassment, even though no one had seen. Her gaze fell to the base of the lamppost, where someone had tied a piece of paper with red string. Take one, it read, scribbled in black marker. Beneath the note, strips of paper flapped in the wind like tiny flags. Curious, Nina tugged at a strip and unfolded it. The words were simple, handwritten in neat cursive: “A year from now, you’ll wish you’d started today.” She stared at the words longer than she cared to admit, her breath puffing out in the cold. It was cheesy, sure, but there was something about it that stuck, like a sliver of light in the heavy fog she carried. She tucked the paper into her coat pocket and headed upstairs to her apartment. Later, as midnight crept closer, Nina sat by her window with a mug of tea, watching fireworks bloom against the sky. She reached for her notebook, the same one she had abandoned last year, and opened it to a fresh page. This time, she didn’t write resolutions. Instead, she wrote down moments she wanted to hold onto, even if they hurt. Her father’s laugh as he botched another toast. Her brother showing up unannounced with greasy pizza after her last breakup. The stranger’s note tied to the lamppost. When the clock struck midnight, Nina didn’t cheer or toast. She just sat there, the warmth of the mug seeping into her hands and the faint crackle of fireworks echoing in the distance. For the first time in years, she felt something shift—not the world, but herself. It wasn’t hope, not yet, but it was close. Something like roots breaking through frozen soil, reaching for the promise of spring.
