Three Years From Now

あさのあめ
ひとはかわらず
そらがかわる

asa no ame / hito wa kawarazu / sora ga kawaru
morning rain / people stay the same / only the sky changes

In three years, my life will be chaotic.
Not in a tragic way just in the way real life tends to be when it’s lived fully.
There will be love and anger, soft mornings and sleepless nights, calm days that dissolve into arguments, apologies whispered in the dark. I’ll be pulled between what I want and what I should do, between the person I am and the one I keep trying to become.

There will be moments when I’ll feel completely alive drinking coffee too late, watching the sky turn gold, laughing until I can’t breathe. And then, moments when everything feels too heavy, when silence fills the room like fog, and I’ll wonder if I’ve drifted too far from who I was.

I’ll fight with people I love. I’ll lose my patience, my way, maybe even my faith in things for a while. But I’ll also find it again in small gestures, in the quiet kindness of strangers, in the way the world keeps going even when I fall behind.

There will be temptations the easy ones, like staying comfortable, and the harder ones, like pretending not to care. Sometimes I’ll give in. Sometimes I’ll resist. I’ll regret both. But I’ve learned that regret is a kind of proof that you still have a pulse, that you still give a damn.

There will be love, too. Complicated, inconvenient, stubborn love. The kind that doesn’t fit neatly into plans but makes the world softer around the edges. The kind that reminds me why I still choose to stay open, even when it hurts.

And through it all, I’ll keep noticing the small things the smell of rain, the clinking of dishes after dinner, the way streetlights hum in the cold. These are the moments that tether me, that remind me life doesn’t need to be perfect to be good.

Three years from now, I’ll still be learning how to live without guarding myself too much.
How to forgive faster.
How to stop chasing some imagined version of balance and instead just breathe through the motion.

I don’t want a life that makes sense.
I want one that feels real full of noise and color and contradictions.
A life that leaves traces.

And when I look back, I hope I’ll see exactly that:
a story that’s messy, human, full of love and mistakes and moments that hurt enough to make me grow.

In short three years from now, I’ll still be me.
Still learning. Still falling.
Still alive in every possible way.