Today I walked home in the rain without an umbrella. At first I was annoyed, but then I noticed how the raindrops made everything look softer, how the smell of wet pavement mixed with blooming jasmine. I arrived home soaked but strangely refreshed. It reminded me that sometimes what we resist becomes the very thing we need.

There's a man who comes to my favorite cafe every Tuesday at 2pm. He orders the same thing—a large black coffee and a blueberry muffin—and sits by the window writing in a leather-bound notebook. Today I noticed he writes with his left hand, pressing so hard the pen leaves indents on the next page. I wonder what stories he's writing, what memories he's preserving with such intensity.

3am and the city is quiet except for the occasional car passing by. My mind won't settle, flipping through memories like an old photo album. I think about how we're all just collections of experiences, constantly being rearranged and reinterpreted. The person I was five years ago feels like a character in a book I read—familiar but distant.