By now, I’ve seen someday as light, as storage, as a horizon I can’t quite reach. And then there’s this other version—the quiet one, the one that doesn’t ask for chasing at all, only listening.
When I sit on my front stoop after a summer rain, notebook nearby, cat curled up close, I think about how someday has softened over time. It doesn’t push as much now. It simply hums beneath the surface, reminding me that life is still unfolding.
Not every someday is about striving. Some are gentle—like the scent of rain, like the small click of keys as I write in the dark. Proof that someday isn’t a date to reach, but a way of noticing that we’re already inside the story we once hoped for.
— The Wallflower
Glimmers of The Wallflower 
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