Once, I thought stories could only come from the world outside, but now I know they also pour out from everything within me—the good, the messy, the hopelessly romantic. My life revolves around weaving words into something meaningful, whether it’s an article, a sticky note on the fridge, or late-night thoughts I probably shouldn’t send. Sometimes, I think too deeply about things, chasing moments I can feel in my chest. You have a way of pausing that chase—just long enough to catch your breath, to let things simmer. Maybe that’s why this works.