Outside
I wake up when the city is already halfway breathing. Sunlight slips through the window—not yet hot, but alive, carrying a promise. I watch the dust motes spin in the air, and each of their slow circles seems to hint that something important might happen today. I’ve grown used to these mornings. To the tea that cools faster than I can drink it. To the silence, stretched taut with a single invisible string. To short phone calls where no one says anything meaningful, but they still create a faint illusion of connection. The day heats up—I catch the smell of fresh bread from the bakery, hear children shouting in the courtyard, see someone waving from a window, not sure to whom. The world lives, vibrates, pulses, fills me with energy— but sometimes it feels like that energy moves right past me. I eat, but never feel full. I laugh, but hear myself from far away. I meet familiar faces—we smile, exchange news, sometimes recall something important, and for a moment warmth fla...