Chapter Twenty-Five: The Sun Within

When you step through a mirror, the world doesn’t explode into color all at once.
It begins quietly — light returning to the edges, warmth seeping back through the cracks.

That’s how Barcelona feels now.
Not revelation.
Renewal.

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Barcelona hums beneath me, alive and warm.

It’s not the dramatic rush of arrival anymore — not the ache of the early weeks or the hollow waiting.
Instead, the days have softened into something gentler. A rhythm. A pulse.

And somewhere in that rhythm, I’ve begun to feel myself again.

This morning, I opened my notebook and wrote without hesitation — letting the words rise as they wanted to.
This is what came through:

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Today I feel light — like the clouds have parted and I can see the sun for the first time in a while. But I realize it’s not the sun in the sky that’s warming me — it’s the sun within.

I finally feel radiant. Truly.

Yesterday, I listened to “Panorama” by Klur on repeat. It reminded me of two things:
(1) I really want to see Klur live one day.
(2) Perspective isn’t given — it’s chosen.

Joy, I’ve learned, hides in the smallest of moments.

It’s the waitress who greets you each morning with a knowing smile, already leading you to your usual table.
It’s the rhythm of a gym routine that comes back easily, even after you’ve been away — the way your body remembers before your mind does.
It’s doing handstands and laughing at how worried you used to be about them, only to realize you’ve still got it.
It’s even in something as simple as a flirty message on Hinge. Not because you’re searching — but because it’s a reminder: you are seen. You are radiant. You were never invisible — just waiting for the right light to shine.

These small moments are the by-products of living fully — like helium rising from the heart of the sun. They lift you effortlessly, reminding you that your inner radiance is both source and reflection.

So I bop along to my favorite songs as I walk through the city, that quiet smile saying:
I’ve remembered the secret to happiness — letting it in.

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When I finished writing, I sat for a long moment, just breathing.
The chapter felt complete before I even knew it was one.

And in that stillness, I understood:
I’m not waiting for the sun to rise anymore.

I am remembering — I am the sun.

And once you understand that, the question shifts.
It’s no longer: Where is the light?
It becomes:
What will I do with all this warmth I now carry?