It’s 10:26 a.m. The sky is a curtain of grey, drawn low without apology. Rain has been murmuring since last night—gentle, persistent, like a voice repeating a memory just beneath hearing. The air is cold, the kind that seeps into your sleeves and stays. The kind that makes you want to stay under thick blankets, not fluorescent lights.
But I’m at the office.
And the quiet ache of being somewhere required, instead of somewhere warm, lingers. My fingers move across the keyboard, but my thoughts drift to windows fogged with breath, to soft sweaters and steaming mugs, to a version of me not here.
This weather—it’s comfortable. It’s nice.
It’s lonely. It’s gloomy.
And it holds me without warning, without kindness or cruelty. Just as it is.
Outside, the world is slow. Inside, I pretend to keep pace.
And for now, I let the rain do the speaking—because it seems to understand what I don’t know how to say.
T1L46, 1026 H via MST
Anggerik
