I write about solitude, city life, and small moments. Leave a mark so I know you read it.
For the first six months I thought the silence was a lack. Then I realized I was finally listening to something I'd never had: my own voice. The apartment stopped feeling empty around week nine, somewhere between learning to cook for one and not minding the quiet anymore...
Every morning, same café, same table. This is where the day actually starts. Not at my desk, not with the first email, but somewhere between the first sip and the moment the street outside starts waking up too...