...

It doesn’t matter where I will be in a month or a year from now.
I could be making snow angels in Russia, or breathing the fog in London. Maybe flirting in Paris, or admiring St. Petersburg.

but

I will remember the rain in New York. I’ve spent too many nights listening to it knocking on my window, keeping me company, telling me stories about others who’ve heard the rain as well.

I will remember the rain in New York. I’ve walked between umbrellas trying to catch the drops. If my clothes would soak – that proved everything. It proved that I was alive – I felt it with my skin.
I will remember the sun in New York. It was hitting me through the window in even perfect stripes.

My novel doesn’t end. It is next chapter.



perhaps... I'll even fall in love. again..