The day I started writing again didn’t feel important at the time. There were no fireworks, no applause, no dramatic revelation. Just a blinking cursor, a blank page, and a part of myself I thought I had lost.
Growing up, writing was always around me. My parents were journalists, and I often saw their articles published in newspapers. To me, there was something magical about seeing words travel from a page in our home to the hands of strangers.
Naturally, I began writing too. As a child, I filled notebooks with stories, dramas, and little adventures that existed only in my imagination. A pen and a book were my favourite companions.
Then, somehow, life happened. School became busier, interests changed, and writing slowly disappeared from my routine. The notebooks remained, but the stories stopped.
Years later, I met a girl who introduced me to Substack. What seemed like a simple recommendation became a turning point. As I began reading and writing again, I rediscovered something familiar, a part of myself I had forgotten.
Today, I write more than ever. Looking back, I realise my first love was never a person.
