I did not plan to become a writer. There were tennis courts, office lights that stayed on too late, client calls that blurred into evenings. Still, words kept finding their way into margins and notebooks meant for other things. I write from what stays behind, quiet mornings, unfinished conversations, memories that return without warning. Most of my stories begin with small things: a chair left outside, an old box no one opens anymore, laughter remembered more clearly than the faces themselves. I am only trying to write the way life arrives: uneven, incomplete, and somehow still worth returning to.