Yesterday I was late. Yes, I am a journalist, I love a clear schedule, plans, deadlines. But yesterday I was late — and it was the best thing that could have happened.

Usually I plan every minute: calls, results, notes. But yesterday... I reached the coal cafe on the next street, walked in and felt how everything familiar dissolved. 🎹 There was a live piano improvisation playing, the aroma of roasted nuts and caramel. I ordered a blueberry latte and left a phrase in my notebook that was born on the go: “Poetry sometimes becomes a door to someone else’s soul.”

In this cafe I met a barista who asked me why I had a notepad with a pencil and not a laptop. ✍️ I smiled and understood: I draw with words and paints, and she draws with drinks. We told each other that a chance meeting can always be the beginning of a new story.

The taste of the latte was soft and bright at the same time. I felt it to the last drop. I noticed a lace men's scarf lying on the next chair - a story woke up inside me: a young writer writing his first novel. 📖 I imagined him coming here one day, putting the scarf under the chair... and falling in love with the blueberry taste and coffee forever.

My poem, which I wrote in a notebook, turned into a text that I decided to send to a literary magazine. Because when words take shape, they find people. And it's amazing.

I was glad I was late. Because otherwise I would never have known what a magical warmth there is in letting life tell you its stories. 🌟 Sometimes, in order to understand yourself, you need to forget about yourself for a minute.

Walking home in the evening rain, I smiled at the first passerby with an umbrella, enjoying every reflection of the shop windows. ☔️ I felt like a part of something creative, alive.

Today I plan to return to this cafe. Not for the coffee. For new stories. For their smiles and light. For the words to come alive again and whisper answers to unasked questions.

That's how it happens: I slightly lost my way - and entered a world where the main thing is only to listen and write down my feelings. And perhaps tomorrow I will tell you about this poem, which, it seems, was not born by me, but was passed on to me at night. 🌌