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Smallest Moments & their Meaning?
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It started like any other random Friday. I was on one of my “I’ll be a better person today” walks — you know, the kind where you convince yourself that fresh air and movement might cure existential dread.
The kind of walk where you pretend life is secretly a Nicholas Sparks novel, and destiny might be lurking around every corner.
(Spoiler alert: It’s not.)
But hey, hope is hope.
Somewhere between dodging an aggressive cyclist and quietly judging a couple for their overly cute hand-holding (we get it, you’re in love, lovebirds), I stumbled upon a bookstore.
Not a shiny, corporate bookstore with self-help books stacked like candy. No. This was a dingy, hole-in-the-wall kind of place — the kind of shop that screams, “We might have first editions, but also spiders.” Naturally, I walked in.
The smell hit me first — paper, dust, and maybe an undertone of regret. It was perfect. The shelves groaned under the weight of forgotten stories, and there were barely enough lights to read the titles. This was my kind of place.
