The Sunday Draft

  The Rising Sun We met in the pale light of a hallway, both of us drawn toward each other as though we had always known we were meant to. It wasn’t love, but something like it, the kind of friendship that feels inevitable, like the rising of the sun each morning. We grew into each other like vines on an arbor, winding around every corner of our lives until it seemed impossible to tell where I ended and she began. Those early days were soft. We moved through them in a haze of laughter and whispered secrets, as though the world could never touch us. We spent nights cocooned in blankets, having conversations we would forget but swearing at the time that they meant everything. We carved out a place in each other’s lives so tenderly, so effortlessly, that I never once questioned whether it could last. She was my mirror, reflecting back all the things I loved and feared about myself, but in her, they felt manageable, lighter. Together, we built a world that was small and safe, a sanctua...

                                 A year ago, I was exhausted—not just tired, but soul-deep worn out from trying to live a life that no longer felt like mine. I’d built my world around a dream I once believed in, poured everything into it, and wrapped my identity around it. Letting it go felt like betrayal: to myself, to those who supported me, to the version of me who once wanted it so badly. But here’s what I wish I’d known then: walking away isn’t failure. It’s growth. It’s maturity. And sometimes, it’s the bravest choice you can make. We’re taught that dreams are supposed to be linear. Pick one, chase it, fight for it, and eventually “make it.” But no one tells you that sometimes the dream stops fitting. That outgrowing something doesn’t make you weak or flaky, it just means you’re paying attention. Back then, I kept pushing through, even after the passion had faded. I thought success ...

                                             In Jane Eyre by Charlotte Brontë, there’s a moment when Jane says, “I am not talking to you now through the medium of custom, conventionalities, nor even of mortal flesh: it is my spirit that addresses your spirit.” That line has always stayed with me, not just because it’s beautifully written, but because it captures something true about the kind of love and friendship that transcends distance, time, and even language. Jane and Rochester’s connection wasn’t perfect or easy. It was tested by circumstance, separation, and silence. And yet, across miles and without words, they felt each other. Their bond existed beyond physical nearness. It was soul-deep. It reminds me of the friendships that stay steady, even when life changes everything else. Spirit to spirit. There’s something profound about a FaceTime call ...

                                Recently, on a Friday afternoon that felt suspended in time, a friend invited me to The Huntington Library—a place I had always meant to visit but had never gotten around to. From the moment we stepped through the gates, it felt like we had entered a different world. The grounds were touched by that gentle hush that seems to live only in places full of old books, wildflowers, and soft afternoon light. We wandered slowly through the gardens and galleries, letting our conversation drift as naturally as the breeze that rustled through the sycamore trees. I wasn’t expecting to be moved by anything in particular, I just thought it would be a nice afternoon. But art, as I’ve learned, often finds you when you’re least expecting it. Eventually, we stepped into one of the galleries and came face-to-face with Chimborazo by Frederic Edwin Church. It stopped me in my track...