These days, my life has a center of gravity, and it’s upholstered. The couch. Not my first choice, of course. My brain dreams of doing normal and energetic things, but my body prefers a more stubborn script: hijack the plot, reroute the action, and land me right back in the arms of my faithful sofa.

And honestly? The couch is a loyal companion. It knows how to cradle you when you’re at your lowest, how to press you gently into its cushions until you finally surrender. It doesn’t ask for explanations. It just holds. Today, as muscle pain and exhaustion raised their little victory flags, I let the couch claim me. Netflix played in the background, but really, the couch was the star of the show.

After a while, I migrated, like a tired bird, to the garden couch. A softer kind of exile. I carried a cappuccino as if it were a sacred offering, and instead of TV, I tuned into a different kind of cinema: my dog, basking in the sun, playing the role of “enlightened sage in fur coat.”

It’s been a month of rollercoasters, highs, lows, corkscrews, and the occasional emotional free-fall. But today? No expectations. Tomorrow will be what it wants to be. For now, I am here. Breathing. Rooted in cushions, shaded by September light. And sometimes, this is enough.