It was a lovely day. Winter — my favorite season. I’ve never been a fan of summer, actually, even though sometimes I might just lie to fit in. There’s something about cold air and grey skies that feels more honest than the blinding heat of July. Today feels like one of those rare days that quietly demands to be remembered — cold, but not cold enough for snow, with clouds hanging low as if they, too, are waiting for something to happen.

It’s been five years since it last snowed. I was still a kid then, and I remember watching the flakes fall with the kind of awe only a child can have. I want it to snow again, but even without it, this weather wraps around me like a familiar memory — the kind you can’t quite touch, but you feel in your bones. I’m sitting in class, half-listening to the teacher talk about history, when the first drops of rain finally start tapping against the windows. A small relief. The lesson had already begun to sink into boredom, and my head felt heavy with the start of a headache.

I’ve never been someone who studies much. I guess I’ve always been more of a “we live once” kind of person, so why spend all of it hunched over books? But I’ve always had mixed feelings here, at school. It’s not the learning I dislike — it’s the constant feeling that every step, every word, every glance is being measured. It’s in the way people’s eyes linger, as if trying to write your whole story without asking you a single question. It makes me want to shrink into the background, to become invisible, to hide somewhere they can’t reach me.

But the world doesn’t work that way. You can’t disappear just because you want to. So I sit here, quiet but breathing, living but never surrendering. The rain keeps falling, soft but steady, and maybe, just maybe, that’s enough for today.