I didn’t plan to go out. But something inside me told me to move. Not fast. Not far. Just… move. I grabbed my jacket, didn’t care if it matched. Didn’t check the weather. I walked down a street I hadn’t taken in months. Not because it was convenient, but because I remembered you once liked it. You mentioned the trees there once. How th

Some evenings just feel… heavier. Even if nothing bad happened. Even if the day was normal, maybe even fine. The sky darkens, but it’s not the lack of light — it’s the quiet that creeps in with it. It starts small. A sigh that escapes without reason. A weight in the chest that doesn’t have a name. I light a candle. Make tea. Try to sha

Most workdays are not defined by big wins or dramatic turns. They’re shaped by tiny moments — the kind that pass quickly, but leave a mark. It’s in those quiet, human details that we find hope, humor, and the strength to keep going. The morning coffee that tastes just right. The coworker who says “I’ve got your back.” The meeting that

Mondays have a way of resetting us — not just the calendar, but our mindset. A fresh start, a new sprint, another week to try again. But every Monday, we return not as the same person, but as a slightly different version of ourselves. Some Mondays, you’re energized — ready to tackle the day. Other Mondays, you’re just trying to hold it to

Every morning, we carry things to work: laptops, notebooks, coffee, headphones. But we also carry things no one sees — exhaustion, doubt, stories we don’t talk about. We put on smiles like uniforms and leave parts of ourselves at the door. And yet, those invisible burdens follow us from meeting to meeting. Some mornings, the commute feels hea