It arrived unannounced, wearing ambition as a cologne and holding a clipboard no one had requested. It had that familiar look — the one gym instructors do — the one that suggested she could be better, faster, shinier, and preferably before noon.
Catherine didn’t answer.
Instead, she stayed very still, silently slipping further under the covers. Experience had taught her that if you don’t move, your thoughts don’t find you. It confuses expectations, and the pressure might assume she isn’t home.
Motivation knocked again. Louder. It promised productivity, personal growth, and a future version of Catherine who woke up early and alphabetised her dreams.
But Catherine had met that version of her.
She was exhausted.
So she made tea. Not the life-changing kind. Just the honest kind that warms your hands and asks nothing of you. The kind that sits with you like a loyal friend.
And in that quiet, without goals or timelines, something strange happened. Without being pushed or “optimised,” an idea slipped in. Softly. Like it belonged there.
Inspiration, it turns out, doesn’t carry clipboards. It whispers. It waits. It shows up when you stop trying so hard to be impressive.
When Catherine finally opened the door, Motivation had gone.
When you look at a person, how many assumptions do you make at first sight?
How many clichés and stereotypes fall neatly into place simply because of how they appear?
Some people you pity. Some you quietly judge. Some you feel an uncomfortable shame for… until you talk to them. And then you discover that they are so much more than you ever assumed. They are educated, well-read, world-travelled, resilient, and often far better off—emotionally or materially—than their humble appearance ever suggested.
Isn’t that odd?
How easily we assume.
How readily we allow appearances to guide our beliefs instead of taking the time to look deeper.
We skim the surface and call it understanding.
Think of it this way: when you focus on one small tree, you lose sight of the magnificence of the forest. That single tree becomes a distraction rather than a part of something wondrous and whole. In the same way, one visible detail—a worn jacket, tired eyes, a hesitant voice—becomes the story, when in truth it is only a fragment.
And perhaps that says more about us than about them.
We live in a world trained to judge quickly, to label efficiently, to move on without lingering. But people are not headlines. They are chapters, contradictions, unfinished sentences. No one’s life can be accurately read from a cover.
As one famous movie tagline puts it: “The closer you look… the less you’ll see.”
Maybe the real challenge is learning not just to look closer—but to look differently.
There are people (like me) who love to travel — to discover new places, engage in new customs, learn about history and where we all came from, and witness how people across the world live. There is always something you take back with you, along with the memories of every trip. It’s the sentiments, the emotions, and the views that remain.
With every airport journey, you begin to cherish life a little differently. You start to appreciate the small moments more. You feel grateful for the people around you — those who rejoice with you, support your wildest and craziest choices, help you debate decisions, and make even the simplest moments feel grand simply by being there.
And during the most wonderful time of the year — the festive holiday season, when everything feels brighter and more magical, and when anything seems possible — you begin to reflect on all that the past year has brought you. At the end of the year, it’s like a flashback: one that makes you feel proud of all you’ve accomplished and, at the same time, courageous for all that still remains to be conquered.
But above all, the warmth of the season draws you closer to the people you love most, and you long for the place where you feel — above all — safe and loved. No matter where you go or how far you travel, regardless of how magical the destination may be, we all seem to long for a few days at home. Home, where family is always ready to welcome you, no matter how short or long your stay. With home-cooked food, love-baked cakes, warm blankets, and a cozy atmosphere.
It’s where you realize that home is not so much the place or the walls that surround you, but the people within it and the emotions it evokes.
And perhaps that is what makes coming home so magical — that it is a place to replenish, a springboard from which to gather strength and fly higher.
Happy New Year, everyone. May it be healthy, prosperous, joyful, loving, blessed, and magical!
Cecilia belonged to airports more than addresses. Her life was a soft collection of stamps, foreign sunsets, borrowed languages. She learned cities the way some people learn lovers — slowly, curiously, always leaving a piece of herself behind. The world had taught her how to wander, and she listened.
Douglas was different. He believed in mornings that repeated themselves, in coffee cups that knew your hands, in places that grew deeper the longer you stayed. He was grounded in a way that felt steady, deliberate — like a promise that didn’t need to be spoken out loud.
They met by accident. Or fate. Or maybe by one of those quiet alignments the universe doesn’t bother explaining. What mattered was that they clicked — instantly, effortlessly — as if their souls had been circling the same thought for years.
When Douglas called, Cecilia was always somewhere else. A different time zone. A different skyline. Always wandering. He never resented it. In fact, he loved that wildness in her — the way she belonged everywhere and nowhere all at once. Loving her felt like watching a bird refuse a cage and still return to the same branch.
But Cecilia’s heart was heavier than she let on. For all her movement, she was tired of leaving. Tired of goodbyes disguised as adventures. She wanted to stay — not because she was afraid to go, but because she had finally found someone worth returning to.
She never asked him to clip her wings. She only waited for him to give her a reason not to keep flying alone.
Some nights, between cities and silence, she whispered it into the dark — a truth she never said out loud to him:
“Give me a reason to stay…Give me roots, so we can fly together…”
Because even the most restless souls long for a place to land. And even the sky needs something solid to rise from.
The day arrived wrapped in silence. Not the peaceful kind — the freezing kind. The sort of cold that bites your cheeks, makes the air feel sharp, and turns even the bravest noses pink with protest. Snow had fallen overnight, thick and unapologetic, blanketing the world as though it had decided to pause everything for a while.
Snow now lay all over, thick on pavements and windowsills, softening edges, muting sound.
In the middle of a small front garden stood a snowman.
He wasn’t remarkable, not really. Three uneven snowballs stacked with hopeful intention, a carrot nose slightly crooked, pebble eyes placed with more enthusiasm than precision. A scarf — far too big — hung loosely around his neck, trailing down his side like it had stories of its own to tell.
And yet, he stood there, quietly alive to the world.
Snowmen, you see, don’t feel the cold the way we do. The freezing air wasn’t his enemy — it was his beginning. But what he did feel was something else entirely. A hollow sort of stillness. A quiet wondering.
He stood still, as snowmen do, watching.
A child passed first, bundled up like a walking duvet, who stopped and laughed at the sight of him. Not mockingly — joyfully. She adjusted his scarf, tugging it snug around his neck before running off, her laughter leaving warmth behind like a fading echo.
Later, an elderly man shuffled by, paused, and nodded at the snowman as if greeting an old friend. He placed his spare woollen hat — worn thin but clearly loved — atop the snowman’s head.
“Too cold to go without,” he muttered kindly, continuing on his way.
The snowman felt something then. A strange softening. Not melting — no — something deeper. Something unseen.
Throughout the day, small gestures found him.
A cup of birdseed scattered at his base by someone who believed kindness should always spill over. A mitten hung carefully from his twig arm, bright and cheerful against the white. A whispered “You look lovely” from a passerby who needed to say something kind out loud — even if it was only to a snowman.
And with each gesture, the snowman’s soul warmed.
Not with heat. With humanity.
He learned something profound that day, standing still while the world moved around him: warmth doesn’t always come from fires or blankets or sunlight. Sometimes, it arrives quietly, disguised as small kindnesses, offered without expectation, given simply because someone chose to notice.
As night fell and the sky turned inky blue, lights flickered on in nearby windows. The snowman stood glowing softly under the moonlight, hat slightly askew, scarf tight and cosy.
He would melt one day — he knew that. But the warmth he carried now? That would outlive him. In the people who passed him. In the kindness they gave. In the reminder that even on the coldest days, we can warm the world — one small gesture at a time.
Proof that even in the coldest seasons, warmth is passed from hand to hand — quietly, generously — until it finds somewhere to rest.
There is something deeply soothing about watching Christmas movies amidst the twinkling lights of the festive season. Simply cocooning on the couch with a fleece blanket and a warm cup of chocolate seems to warm you from the inside out.
Sure, what you’re watching is pure fantasy… but isn’t that the point? For a few precious days, you allow yourself to believe in magic — the kind that quietly appears all around you. You’re reminded that miracles can happen, that good things sometimes arrive unexpectedly, that karma has a gentle way of circling back when kindness is given freely. And that it costs absolutely nothing to simply be nice.
Christmas movies are fun not so much because of their predictable plots or happy endings, but because of the emotions they leave behind. That enduring sense of hope. That familiar comfort. That warmth that wraps itself around your heart and stays with you long after the credits roll.
It’s the feeling that reminds you to slow down. To soften. To believe, even just a little, that things can work out. And maybe that’s why we keep coming back to them year after year — not for the stories themselves, but for the quiet reminder of who we want to be.
That warmth stays with you all year long…until the next batch of movies arrives.
They arrive without names, silhouettes against the silver water.
Evening pulls the day apart gently, strand by strand.
Children run where waves unmake their footprints. Adults carry bags, boards, histories they won’t unpack here.
The sea accepts everyone without asking. For a moment, nobody is watched, nobody is explained.
Shadows lengthen; conversations dissolve into wind.
Soon they will leave, returning to kitchens, traffic, expectations.
But right now there is only salt, light, and the quiet agreement to stand side by side, strangers sharing a horizon, trusting it to hold all of us, just for this breath, before night finally falls.
Enjoyed the depth of feeling you have given us – not all beaches offer us this beautiful accpeptance and unwinding, but some do and your 100 words fit this photo prompt so well
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