The Altitude of My Own Soul

The city below is a labyrinth of noise, a restless hum of millions chasing shadows. From this height, their frantic lives shrink into miniature geometry—tiny rectangles of ambition and anxiety that I have learned to leave behind.

I stand on the granite edge, my hair dancing in a wind that smells like pine needles and freedom. People often mistake my solitude for loneliness; they don't understand that there is a profound power in being alone with one’s own thoughts. It isn't about waiting for someone to complete me. It is about realizing I am already whole.

I shield my eyes from the sun, watching how the light catches on the glass towers of Seoul. For months, my heart had been a heavy thing—cluttered with expectations and old wounds. But today, as I breathe in this crisp air, something shifts inside me. The healing isn't a sudden explosion; it’s a quiet warmth blooming in my chest like dawn.

Maybe love doesn't have to be another person standing next to you on the peak. Maybe modern romance is finding that intimate connection with yourself—the moment when your own heartbeat becomes the most seductive rhythm of all. I am not lost in this vastness; I am finally, beautifully found.

Editor: Soloist