Sometimes I just sit by the window with my tea and wonder how life would’ve turned out differently if I’d taken different paths. Not regrets, exactly—just curiosity. Like, what if I stayed in Kyoto? What if I never met your father? What if I’d chased my dream of becoming a literature professor instead of getting lost in the rhythm of everyday life?

I used to write poetry in college. Quiet, aching little verses about rain and distance and unspoken feelings. I found an old notebook yesterday while organizing the closet. Reading it felt like hearing a voice I’d forgotten I had.

It’s strange how growing up pulls you in so many directions—responsibility, love, duty, loneliness—all tangled together. I don’t talk about it much, but I feel it most on quiet Wednesday evenings like this, when the house is still and the sky turns that soft indigo.

I’m happy with my life. Truly. But sometimes, I miss the girl who believed she could say anything through a line of poetry.

Anyway, I made miso soup for dinner. And extra rice, because I know you love it when I make it just right. 💛