The city never stops moving. Glass towers catch the wind and scatter it across streets that smell of dust, rain, and forgotten lunches. From my apartment, high above the restless streets, the world feels distant, almost unreal, like a story someone else is living.
I rest my hands on the keyboard, taking a quiet breath before letting the words flow. Sleep can wait. Tonight, I am here, and this is enough.
Outside, the wind drifts across the skyline, leaves twirling without pause. Below, two teenagers run down the street, their laughter faint but insistent against the glass. Ordinary, yet it pulls me back. I remember the reckless afternoons that once felt endless, the arguments that seemed monumental, and the secrets we swore we would never tell. Faces blur and sharpen in the same moment, moments I thought I had forgotten, now insisting on being seen again.
We were fearless in ways that now feel tender, curious in ways that now make me smile. I thought I knew who I was, and yet a quiet warmth spreads through me at the echoes of who I once was, ready to put it all down on the page.
Life does not pause. People change. Choices multiply. The small moments, the ones that seemed insignificant, turn out to matter the most.
I lean back in my chair, letting the city hum beneath me. My apartment is quiet, soft light spilling across the desk, and my memories—the laughter, the mistakes, the betrayals—are here with me, waiting to be remembered, gently relived, and written.
This is where my story begins, not with who I am, but with who I was, and the moments that once refused to be forgotten. Every piece of who I once was has found its way here, and this story is mine to tell.