I never thought moving to a new city would feel like stepping into someone else's dream—and yet, here I am. The skyline stretches before me, a jagged line of glass and steel cutting through the soft pink of dusk. My small apartment feels both foreign and hopeful, a blank canvas waiting for me to make it mine.
Days blur together, filled with the hum of busy streets and the distant echoes of laughter and music. Painting has always been my refuge, but lately, the colors feel muted, like I'm chasing a shadow I can't quite catch. The past clings to me in quiet moments—memories of what was and what I lost.
Tonight, the rain taps gently against my window, a soothing rhythm. I sit by the easel, brush in hand, trying to capture the restless energy of the city outside. Maybe this time, I'll find what I'm looking for.
The apartment is small, but it's mine, and that means something. I've stacked my canvases against the walls, scattered brushes across the table, and unpacked the few things that remind me who I am beyond the heartbreak. Sometimes, when the loneliness creeps in, I tell myself this is just the beginning — a chance to rewrite my story.
I glance at the clock. It's almost eight, but the city never really sleeps. Through the window, I see a flicker of movement—someone rushing down the sidewalk, umbrella forgotten in the sudden downpour. The streetlamps cast long shadows, and the rain makes everything shimmer.
A part of me aches to step outside, to be part of this world buzzing with life. But I stay rooted by my easel, afraid that if I move too fast, the past will catch up.
For now, the brush strokes are enough. For now, this is home.