The days feel shorter. Everyone around me also seems tired, or off somehow, like we’re all waiting for something to click back into place.

Meanwhile, philosophy has cracked my mind open in an entirely new way. I picked up a minor in Philosophy almost on a whim, and now I spend three-hour Logos lectures sitting in circles, debating ethics and moral relativism, writing essays on the spot like my brain is on trial.

Theatre has been all Russian literature and movement exercises, emotion pulled from somewhere deep and unspoken. The room itself feels like another world—dark, moody, the golden afternoon sun filtering in just enough to illuminate the dust particles swirling in the air.

On the train, I catch my reflection in the window when we pass under a tunnel. My eyes, searching—like a deer in headlights. But in those sketches, they were something else entirely. They were me, but through another’s eyes.

It’s perfect, the silver, and the clasp around it. It’s exactly what I wanted. I feel seen, and so grateful. When I look at it, I feel love, and it’s almost more about that than anything else.

At night, the Tiber river reflects the city lights, and the air smells good—cold but crisp, like something ancient still lingers here.

When we finally arrived at the house, she took me upstairs to my room, just around the corner from hers. It smelled like fresh linen and gardenia—tiny white flowers arranged neatly on the bedside table.

So I guess this is the first post. Kind of weird, like saying hi, but not really knowing who to. Maybe someone. Maybe my future self.