Timothy Leary

‚Temporary Fix, Permanent Feeling‘ The mountains had a way of making everything feel smaller—worries, plans, even a wedding. The lodge sat tucked against the slope, woodsmoke curling into the crisp air, and from its terrace the whole valley seemed to hold its breath. He hadn’t expected to like it here. Too rustic, too far from the city. Yet somehow, the stillness had a way of getting under his skin. The ceremony itself had been anything but quiet. One moment he was standing tall beside his best friend, the rings steady in his palm. The next, a slip—metal against skin, a sharp clink—and one of the bands had vanished through the cracks of the wooden boards. A collective gasp. His own pulse hammered in his ears. And then them. Calm, quick, almost mischievous. They had unclasped the chain from around their neck, slid a ring free, and pressed it into his hand before the silence had stretched too long. Laughter rippled quietly, the bride squeezed his shoulder, the groom exhaled relief. Crisis averted, the moment transformed into a story people would retell with smiles. A few days later, after several awkward missed encounters, he finally had the heirloom in his pocket. The real ring had been rescued that morning—fished out from beneath the veranda with a bent wire and far too much triumph. Relief settled over him—no more waiting, no more guessing. Now he could return it properly. Taking a deep breath, he made his way to where they were sitting by the meadow, sunlight catching their hair. “I think this belongs to you,” he said, holding out the silver band, letting a small, amused smile creep onto his face. (32, 6‘1, image from Pinterest)