Just Another Day Before the World Ends.

It was one of those mornings when the wind seemed to toy with the fate of things without warning, without asking permission. I woke up before the sun with that familiar unease that whispered something was off. It wasn’t the day itself or the world outside. It was inside me where everything felt slightly out of place. Time, I thought, was smirking at me, mocking my attempts to control it, like someone watching a scene where they already knew the ending.

I strolled, not eager to meet the day. The wind carried with it fragments of memories I had tried to forget. Some things we leave behind, but they have this irritating habit of following us, like shadows we can’t shake off. There’s no escaping who we were, what we’ve felt, or what we still carry, even when we mask it with routines and tired smiles.

For a long time, I believed what they told me about love: it only happens once, an event too rare to repeat. Like a comet passing by—miss it, and it’s gone forever. But that’s nonsense. Love is like the wind. It comes and goes and shifts directions, but it never really disappears. It passes through us—sometimes in a glance, a gesture, or a shared silence. The problem is that we waste too much time waiting for it to follow the proper rules when it only wants to disturb our certainties.

They talked so much about halves, about finding the other part to make us whole, as if we were broken pieces waiting to be fixed. But no one told us that love isn’t about finding; it’s about being. We are whole independently; if something’s missing, it’s probably what we haven’t given ourselves. Waiting for someone else to fill our gaps is, in a way, a refusal to live. I was guilty of that for a long time. I waited—waited longer than I should have. And in the end, I found nothing but the emptiness I had created.

Today, the wind feels different. It carries with it a lesson I’m only now learning: detachment. I’ve learned to let things move without my control, let people come and go, and let feelings pass. In the end, what remains is what we allow ourselves to feel—without rules, without deadlines, without the illusion that everything has to last forever. Not even the wind lasts forever. And that doesn’t make it any less critical.

As the wind keeps blowing, I begin to understand. The secret lies in not trying to understand everything, not trying to predict what’s next, but accepting the movement of things. Loving what is now, not what was, not what might be. Because, really, what else do we have but the now?

I let the wind take away my certainties. Let it carry off this useless waiting—for perfect love, flawless days, and happy endings. Ultimately, all that remains is the movement like this wind, which never hurries but never stops.