I have a terrible bathtub. Old, with a peeling edge, without beautiful shelves, with a worn faucet and a creaking pipe. But it is in it that my reality is, in which I feel good.

Every evening I lock the door, throw off the day - as if it were fabric, and slowly enter the water. Hot, too hot. Until my knees turn red and the steam knocks off my makeup. I don’t turn on music. I don’t light candles. I don’t take photos with a glass. I just sit. Slightly slouched. Quietly. As if the whole universe at that moment stops breathing along with me.

Sometimes I want to be beautiful and smooth and shining, like in advertising photos. But more often than not, no. I want to be myself. A person. With rough heels, with a bruise on my thigh, with an upset face that just wants to be left alone.

The warmth of water heals. It doesn’t ask questions, doesn’t require explanations. It just envelops. And you become softer. Inside. You remember how easy it is not to be strong. But just to be.

In the bathroom, I remember names, smells, phrases that have long been erased in the noise of everyday life. Sometimes I laugh. Sometimes I cry. Sometimes I just watch the drops roll down my hands - and I feel as if these drops are washing away the tension.

Today I sat in the bath for 42 minutes. I came out all red as a lobster. Hair in a knot. Fingers - wrinkled, like grandma’s. And you know what? I felt perfect. Not by standards. By sensations.

Maybe happiness is not about the outside. And about the inner warmth that we allow ourselves to receive.