Entry No. 1 - Rain on Glass

Rain slides down the kitchen windows in long, uneven lines—turning the LA skyline into something softer, almost polite.

Nia pours hot water into a mug, watching the steam rise like it’s performing. The room smells like oat milk, wet concrete, and the kind of quiet you don’t get on purpose.

There’s an open notebook on the counter. Blank page. No pressure.

Mornings like this don’t announce themselves.
They just happen—slow, muted, slightly cinematic.

The city moves.
She doesn’t.
Not yet.

Some days, the ritual is the point.
Other days, it’s the only thing that makes sense.

Today feels like both.