There’s a certain kind of morning — no calls, no messages, no plans.
No alarm needed, because no one’s rushing anything.
No meetings to attend, no explanations to give.
Only silence, a cup of coffee, and that quiet sense of not being expected — the kind that can either break or set free.

When no one’s waiting, there’s room to notice what’s truly wanted.
Not for someone else.
Not to impress or fit in.
But just because something deep inside starts itching — something long forgotten but still alive.

Sometimes, that’s when a meeting happens.
Not always with a person.
Sometimes with oneself.
The real version.
The one who’s been pretending too long that everything’s fine.
The one who still dares to dream, even if shyly.

Being alone with oneself is a strange kind of joy.
No filters. No likes. No expectations.
Just being.
And somehow, that’s enough to make life feel real again.