MICROSCOPIC TENDERNESSES.

Brianna, April 23, 2017; Florence, Italy; studying in Photo Lab.

The room was lit with fluorescent lighting and a bit chilly. I tend to run cold, so I'd always regret it whenever I forgot to bring a sweater to class. A big wide wooden table with high stools on either side sat in the center of the room. The class size was small enough for everyone to say hi to each other before class started. One of my classmates and I would say hi to each other often, and sometimes compliment each other's prints, sprawled out in front of us. It was fascinating to glance at other students' work and see the unique perspectives with which we all photographed the same Florence. Or if someone took a weekend trip to another city, or even another country in Europe, as American study abroad students notoriously do while they're on the continent, we'd get to see images of their travels too.

My classmate was a girl who carried this genuinely friendly energy about her. Her compliments were always sincere, and she had a lightness about her that allowed her personality to come out naturally, whether in conversations or in front of the class, answering a question or offering an insight. It was aspirational for me to observe, because I've had stage fright for my entire student life — it takes a lot for me to get comfortable speaking in front of people I don't know well.

Something that caught my attention, and the attention of all the students that semester, was that she carried around a notebook. I don't know if she had a certain name for it, but I recall it as her happy book. Plain and half-filled, covered in pages of lists, each entry in a different handwriting. The heading was a name, a date, a city or country, and a description of whatever that person was doing at the moment. And then a numbered list — things that made this person happy. They could write as many or as few as they wanted. The students in our semester all knew, or at least heard, about the girl with the happy book, and wanted the chance to write their own list.

One day in class, toward the end of the semester, I saw her sitting next to a classmate who was writing in it. I asked what they were doing, and she explained the concept of her happy book. She invited me to write, and I was so excited. I flipped through the pages already filled, to see what others had contributed — the places she'd been to collect these entries, how long or short people's lists were, the actual things that made them happy. Some were a word or two. Others were fully fleshed out, written like a story, or a stream of consciousness.

I turned to the next blank page. At the top I wrote: Brianna. April 23, 2017. Florence, Italy. Studying in Photo Lab. And then my list. I wanted to write it in short fragments, keeping them spare, just naming these moments or things plainly. Whatever I chose, it was very telling of who I was back then — in the raptures of young, idealized, fantasy-like love, and certain, without a concrete plan, that I'd make this city my forever home one day.

I wonder if she ever did anything with that notebook. Did she end up filling the whole thing? How many cities, countries, continents, cafés, museums, restaurants, libraries, homes did her path lead her to, so she could collect more happy things? Did she make a new friend, or did she fall in love with one of the writers? How long did it take her to get to the last page? Did she ever write her own list, and include it there?

Are there certain lists that resonated with her more than others? Did she find patterns in the things that kept making people happy, across time and culture and geographic distance? Did she ever ask people why those things made them happy? Was there a list she didn't like? Was there a list someone wrote that didn't take the question seriously — that treated the prompt like a joke? Did she ever meet these people again, or were these crossings of paths a singular moment, and the list was proof?

I imagine she used her happy book as a source of quiet encouragement — that maybe she flipped through the pages when life felt heavy and she needed cheering up, or motivation to keep going, because life was worth it. The lists say so. I imagine the gold mine she collected inspired her to create a work of art, or maybe a book. Man, if I had material like that, I could write a novel that would never end.

Imagine all the characters I could create — already knowing so much about what's important to them. Creating journeys for them, and intertwining their paths, too. But now that I think about it, maybe that's what life does for me. It allows me to encounter all kinds of people, whose paths cross with mine. I may not carry around a notebook with pages for them to fill in. But I have ears that love to listen to what lights people up. A mind that's really good at observing and remembering details. A creative vision that can't help but shape moments into stories worth preserving. It all culminates in the way I move through my world.

My desires and life perspectives have changed drastically since that moment, almost a decade ago. But looking back at them, they are still beautiful to me. They don't have to be true for me still, in order for me to appreciate them. My life since then has expanded to be so much more than that moment. And in the big picture, they're still there, though far from the main subject matter — more like film grain in a black and white photograph. Microscopic tendernesses.

I don't think they were random things on each list. Honestly, the premise itself is a filter — pausing to name what makes you happy, then letting it travel forward to be read by strangers, only interests people who already treat life as something worth reflecting on.

The question "what makes you happy?" sounds almost too easy to answer. Almost making you wish you were asked to rack your brain a little harder. But aren't you? If you treat writing in it as an opportunity to convey your deepest truth, I believe you'd choose your words intentionally. I believe you'd mention what is beautiful, meaningful, and worthy of preserving.

I wrote my list using short fragments — spare, plain. After spending several minutes mentally flipping through the archive of my life at 21, I ended up choosing people, things, and experiences that didn't need over-explanation. They just needed presence, to let someone feel why they made me happy.

I was flipping through my digital photography archive from spring 2017 in Florence — it's been so long since I looked through these — and I almost couldn't believe it, but there it was: a photo of my own list from the happy book. My eyes widened in disbelief. I got up close to my computer screen and squinted, to see if the image was really what I thought it was.

I'd forgotten each item was numbered, picking up right where the previous list stopped. Starting from 2281, ending at 2300 — it's so me to want to end things on an even number. I'd written so many more than I remembered: red lipstick, long hugs, spontaneity, being remembered. My handwriting hasn't changed much at all.

The big dreams — Florence as a forever home, an idealized love — have since made room for newer ones: more than one place to call home, and love that takes a shape wider than any ideal could hold. Some things I was ready to release. But the tiny joys, those I'm still keeping.

Brianna, July 8, 2026; every city I have loved enough to remember; being present, creating.