Of course, I know I’m really just talking to myself right now. But somehow, it feels warmer this way.
«You know, it’s strangely quiet in the kitchen today. Just the pot bubbling—almost like it’s humming along with my thoughts. I’m standing by the stove and suddenly catch myself wanting to write to you. No reason. Just like before.
How are you over there? Is everything okay? Are you freezing in this never-ending cold? Feels like even spring got lost somewhere along the way…
You started reading a new book—how is it? Is it worth spending an evening and a cup of tea on?
What’s new with you? I find myself missing our talks sometimes—the real ones.
How are your days going? Still running in circles, or has something fresh, something alive finally broken through?
And please, tell me you’ve quit smoking. For some reason, that matters to me.
How do you feel? Physically, emotionally… truly. Sometimes, to understand who we are, all it takes is to answer one simple question: “How are you?”
I’m not expecting a reply. Just… maybe you’re thinking of me too, right now.»
It’s funny, feels like I’ve lost my mind and I’m just talking to myself. But hey, it actually helps.
While the food’s cooking, I’m gonna step out for a smoke…