**Seeing Possibilities**
The morning began with the familiar blare of the alarm at half past seven. Emily stretched, feeling the cool air against her skin as she fumbled for her slippers under the bed. Daylight seeped through the curtains, bright but uninspiringjust another marker of routine. She walked past the armchair with its neatly folded blanket and automatically flicked the kettle on, her movements mechanical, as if someone else were guiding her.
While the water boiled, she scrolled through her phone. Her feed was a blur of familiar faces, other peoples triumphs, and event invitations that felt meant for someone else. The cold kitchen counter under her palm reminded her the heating had been turned offtypical for late spring, when the sun hadnt yet warmed the bricks properly. Her usual porridge, eaten with the same ceramic spoon, cooled faster than usual. Tasteless, joyless.
The past month had been a loop. A slow morning shower. Remote work: calls with colleagues, short emails to her manager, rare coffee breaks by the balcony. Outside, childrens laughter rang through the courtyardso carefree it felt like another world. Evenings were either a stroll around the block or a quick trip to the corner shop. All of it was colourless, flavourless.
Lately, the stagnation had become almost tangible. She wasnt irritated by people or even her own fatiguejust hollowed out by the sameness. She remembered past attempts to change: online courses abandoned after two weeks, gym routines ditched after three sessions. Everything felt either too hard or not *hers*. Sometimes, a nagging thought crept in: *What if this is it?*
That morning, Emily caught herself staring too long out the window. A middle-aged man was helping his son ride a scooter in the courtyard. The boy laughed loudly, infectiously; the father watched with such pure delight that something inside Emily shifted. She looked away. Moments like that always felt like postcards from someone elses life.
Work passed as usual: reports, pointless calls. After lunch, she walked to the post office to send some tax documents. The pavement was warmer than expected, heat shimmering above it. Elderly women sat on benches, gossiping; someone tossed bread to pigeons. Teenagers scrolled on their phones, young mothers chatted.
On her way back, a woman carrying a bright bouquet of lilacs smiled at herwarm, open, as if they knew each other. Emily smiled back instinctively. A few steps later, she realised the strangers smile had left a faint echo inside her. Unexpectedly pleasant.
That evening, among work messages, an invitation popped up: *»Emily! Theres a collage-making workshop on Saturday near yours. Fancy it? Coffees on me!»* It was from an old uni mate, Lucythey hadnt spoken much in years. Normally, Emily wouldve dismissed it (*Why bother?*), but this time, her finger hovered.
Excuses tumbled in: *»Ill stick out,» «Everyone else will know each other,» «Im rubbish at art.»* Yet beneath the habit of avoidance, a tiny spark flickered. The workshop was freeshe could just watch.
Late that night, she stepped onto the balcony. The air smelled of fresh-cut grass; music floated from somewhere. Lights flickered in windows opposite: families at dinner, someone taking out bins. The city was alive after wintervoices louder, windows wide open.
Emily gripped the railing, thinking. She used to say *yes* to invites without a second thought. Had life changed, or had she? The lilac womans smile, Lucys messagethey felt like quiet nudges.
The next day dragged. Even her managers voice through the laptop speakers grated. After work, she wandered aimlessly. At the crossroads, she bumped into Tom, an old uni friend.
«Emily? You live round here?» he grinned.
They chatted on the pavement. Tom was buzzing about a new community projectfree talks in local parks.
«Youve got writing experience, right? We need someone to cover the events. Come along tomorrowwere brainstorming near the sixth block!»
Emily laughed nervously. «I havent written properly in ages.»
Tom shrugged. «Perfect time to start again.»
Back home, she paced. The lilac woman, Lucy, Tomwere these coincidences, or hints? Before overthinking, she texted Lucy: *»Im in!»* Her heart raced.
That night, instead of dread, anticipation hummed. She imagined the workshop: magazines strewn across tables, strangers cutting and gluing. The park meeting: faces under fairy lights, swapping ideas.
Morning came bright. Pavement glared; people shed jackets. A woman at the bus stop cradled seedling trays; a child clutched balloons.
At lunch, her notebooks blank page drew her in. She scrawled:
*What happens if I try? Where will this step lead?*
Those words felt weightier than anything in months.
Lucy confirmed the workshop: *»Meet at the library near Victoria Park.»* Tom messaged too*»Tonight, 7 pm, sixth block.»* Excitement prickled, but the old urge to hide faded.
That evening, Emily hesitated at the mirror. What says *»Im back»*? She settled on light jeans and a cream blouse, hair in its usual messy ponytailno need to pretend.
As golden hour gilded the rooftops, she stepped out. The air held daytime warmth, sweet with blossom. At the sixth block, volunteers huddled on benches clutching printouts. Tom waved like hed been waiting just for her.
Emily listened as they planned summer events. A red-bearded guy asked her opinion on poster slogans. Flustered, she suggested two.
«Sharp and clearexactly what we need,» someone approved.
When tasks were assigned, Tom asked, «Can you draft a blurb for our first event? For the neighbourhood newsletter.»
Emily nodded, surprising herself. The groups encouragementwarm glances, nodsmade fear shrink.
Talk drifted to books, films. At one point, Emily realised she was laughing freely. Dark fell, but she didnt want to leave.
Walking home, she passed lit windowspeople on calls, washing up. The night felt translucent. That morning, shed almost talked herself out of coming.
Next day, Emily woke early, itching to draft the event blurb. She sent it off without over-editing. Tom replied fast: *»Spot on! Exactly the voice we wanted.»*
At the library, Lucy introduced her: «My uni matesuper creative!» The group shared scissors, glue, stories. Emilys hands shook at first, but soon she was layering clippings: a sunlit park, the phrase *»Seize the Day!»*, laughing friends at a table.
«Yours feels so *alive*,» a woman remarked.
Later, plans were made for next weeks sessionsummer postcards for neighbours. «Coming?» Lucy asked.
«Definitely,» Emily said, meaning it.
That night, tea in hand, she scribbled in her notebook: *»Draft second article,» «Make summer collage,» «Ask Lucy for a walk.»* Outside, a brief rain left pavement gleaming.
She marvelled at how quickly things shifted when you leaned into possibility instead of routine. Gratitude swelledfor Lucys nudge, Toms trust, her own courage.
Under *Tomorrow*, she wrote:
*Dont wait for inspirationcreate it.*
June stretched ahead: volunteer meetings, the design course shed signed up for, a piece on summer activities for the local site.
As night cooled the city, Emily opened the window wide. Curtains fluttered; distant music played. For the first time in months, she thought of tomorrow not with dread, but curiosity.
Now, every chance encountera smile, an invitefelt less like coincidence, more like an opening. And that was the real revelation.
