The first light hitting the cold seagulls on the roof

Dear Delyara, It is twenty minutes before six in the morning, and the white birds are sitting in a row on the grey slate roof opposite my window. For months, this exact hour meant impending doom—the moment I had to close my laptop, slip back into bed, and pretend to my partner that I hadn't spent another night drowning in secrets. But yesterday, I finally confessed the truth about the business failure. She didn't leave. She sat on the floor with me, held my hand, and we mapped out a plan. Tonight, I stayed awake because I was designing our new web architecture. Enjoying the absolute quiet of this crisp morning without an ounce of panic in my chest is a small joy I will never take for granted again. The sky is turning the color of wet slate, and I am finally ready for the sun to come up.