When you open them, you will be back on the first stone.
I hold every shoeprint. I’m the thread; you’re the needle. When you stop, I keep going. Step where I shine.
Each step lays another stone.
Behind the church. The bench with the invisible guest list. You sit down and suddenly the night edits itself around you. Someone you love always appears, but you never know who first.
The grinding of metal, the pop of boards, the eruption when someone lands the trick they’ve been wrestling. The joy is communal. You don’t even have to land something for your heart rate to change.
2:53 in the morning. Tired as hell. Plastic cups. Stupid jokes that become the thing you’ll remember forever. Walking home alive and stupidly grateful that your legs and your friends still work.
Each one is its own grammar. Long talks, chaotic debates, weird projects, scooters inside, “don’t mind the paint.” A place where ideas get born even if no one wrote them down.
A shapeshifter. Comfort personified then suddenly a room too small for your future. The place you rest, the place you fight with expectations, the place that ultimately forgives you.
The everyday path. Little shops that know your shoulders by silhouette. Sometimes nothing happens there. Sometimes that’s the whole point. You cross it in all temperatures and chapters.
Spotlights and sweat. Pride when your friends shine. A place where identities are tried on like outfits. Where you hug too long because the song is too short. Where you feel the courage to exist louder.