We were somewhere near Budva when the road curved tight around the cliffs and the sea opened up below like a secret. That soft turquoise clarity that always makes you feel like the world is older than anything you’ll ever understand.
It was early spring. The kind that still has winter in its lungs.
I was sixteen. The bus smelled like damp backpacks and potato chips. A mix of excitement and sweat. The kind of travel that runs on youth and low expectations.
Next to me sat a boy from the back row. I don’t remember his name. Maybe his name didn’t matter. But I remember his eyes—dark, still, with that look some people get when they’re always listening even if their mouth is moving.
He said something I’ve never forgotten.
“You always talk about how you love summer,” he said, looking out the window. “But I think it’s a waste to wait for one season.”
I laughed. “Summer is the best. Long days, no jackets, the sun actually wants you to exist.”
He smiled. “Sure. But don’t you think it’s human to want to make the most out of whatever you get?”
There was a pause, the kind that feels bigger than the conversation.
“I love winter,” he continued. “I love hot drinks, and seeing my breath when I talk. I love how it slows everyone down. Autumn smells like school books and wet trees. Spring is messy and awkward and alive. And summer—yeah, summer’s great. But if I only waited for that, I’d spend three quarters of the year being disappointed.”
Outside the window, the Adriatic glistened like a mirage. We passed laundry lines flapping on small balconies, kids chasing balls barefoot, old women sitting in pairs by empty roadside stands. Time, somehow, didn’t feel linear. Not in the Balkans. It felt circular, like seasons.
Maybe that’s when I started thinking differently about time.
Wabi-Sabi of the Rotating Sky
I used to think summer was the destination. Now I think every season is a window, a lens.
They don’t exist to be compared.
They exist to be entered.
What that boy taught me on that road to Montenegro still rings true:
- Winter teaches presence. It strips life down to breath and shelter.
- Spring reminds us that growth is never graceful, but it is persistent.
- Summer gives us ease. But ease is only precious when it’s not permanent.
- Autumn tells us how to let go with dignity. How to rust beautifully.
Now I live by a rhythm, not a preference.
I sweat when it’s hot.
I shiver when it’s cold.
And I try not to wish for anything other than what’s already here.
That boy—I never spoke to him again after that trip.
But his words followed me.
Through the cities I moved to.
The rooms I sat in.
The seasons I stopped waiting for.
Because life doesn’t slow down for our favorites.
It just keeps turning.
And if you’re lucky—really lucky—
you get to turn with it.
Even once around the sun is a gift.
So try to enjoy all of it.
Even the rain.
Even the wind.
Even the years that don’t make sense until much later.
life 
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