There’s a strange clarity in this season. Like I’ve remembered to breathe, like I’ve never been afraid. Light falls differently. Bluebells tilt toward the sun, soft-faced and certain, as they’ve done for a thousand springs and will for a thousand more. It’s the early morning of the year, and I start to notice things again—the way green sharpens, the way shadows stretch across pavement like handwriting following a growing arc.

Rain gathers on the car window. Behind it, a gas station sign blurs beside an old brick building. We sit for a while, engine off, watching the water thread downward. Listening to rain. It’s enough to be still. Enough to see what the weather does with the view.

Inside the diner, the air is warm and filled with soft sounds. Cups of tea are set down gently. Takoyaki arrives with a laugh. We talk about little things. Chopsticks against slurping noodles. The quiet between words fills itself—full of time, of presence, of the comfort of being known. No performance necessary.