I don't live an extraordinary life. Never have.
My days begin with the scent of warm bread drifting through the floorboards. There's a bakery just below my rented room, and though I rarely buy more than a cup of tea and the occasional dry muffin, I've grown attached to the smell. It gives the illusion that someone's cooking for me.
My job is remote—data entry, nothing glamorous. I sit in front of a screen and type numbers, fix inconsistencies, crosscheck records. It's quiet, repetitive work. No meetings. No real connection with anyone. But it pays the rent, and I've never been greedy for more.
Evenings, though—those are mine. That's when I walk.
Not far, not fast. Just out. Through city streets, along park trails, past cafés where couples lean close over flickering candles. I've always liked watching people. There's something sacred in observing without interfering, like reading a book you can't change the ending of.
Sometimes I imagine their stories. Sometimes I catch glimpses of something real.
Like the boy who sits on the same bench every Tuesday, sketching the same girl from across the park. Or the elderly couple who visit the café near my street every Sunday, always sharing one slice of cake, always silent.
These moments... they stay with me. I write them down sometimes. Not in a formal journal, just in a tattered notebook I carry in my coat pocket. No one's ever read it, and I doubt anyone ever will. But the stories—they matter to me.
Because love is strange. It's loud for some people and quiet for others. It's messy and aching, thrilling and terrifying, sometimes all in the same breath. And while I've never had much of it in my own life, I find myself drawn to its presence in others'.
You could say I collect stories. Not the grand ones with fireworks and rain-drenched kisses, but the kind you'd miss if you weren't paying attention. The kind that pass like shadows—soft, real, fleeting.
I don't look for happy endings. I don't judge when they're not. I just watch. And maybe in doing so, I feel a little less like a stranger in the world.
Not long ago, I came across a story I couldn't just observe. One that refused to stay on the page. It dragged me in—unexpected, chaotic, real.
And for the first time, I did more than write it down.
I tried to change its ending.