I'll be honest—my morning walks began in late May for someone. Someone special. That was my reason at first. Why it was is another story, but in that pursuit, I found something else, a new reason to rise with my alarm, slip on my shoes, and walk as if the day depended on it.

I set out each day to find the sunrise—a secret I hoped to share with her. I sought out where the sky first turned orange, and it didn't take long to realise that it was not possible to see the sunrise here after bordering the campus' very edges and elevations. Not the way I imagined. But I found something else: this place at its purest. The college grounds, usually littered with students, friends, education, all at rest—a pause between yesterday and today. It feels so assuring that I know how this place runs when everything comes to a standstill, an interlude only I have tasted, catching a quiet breath before the day rushes in. Although there will be a time when I have explored every trail and corner here, I find comfort in this knowledge exclusive to me and a very few other. 

This silence—it's mine, and it's enough, almost. Without her, it's just shy of perfect. Maybe that's why I return to the same spots. I trace our steps, revisiting where it all happened and ended so quickly, the red asphalt path amongst the cool dawn and breaths. I am mindful of this bliss, like the bitterness of coffee and it's not an obsession, not exactly, but more like a thread I can't help following: this feeling of repetition so profound, and now I'm tangled up in the art of what could have been.

And I know, to those who know me, this might sound like dwelling. But it's not despair; it's more like savouring. A kind of gratitude. There's a comfort in feeling it all, in being reminded that love is as sharp as it is sweet. And isn't that what keeps us all moving in the end? Love. Or its aftertaste.

I remind myself, that maybe I'm a sunrise person, and she's the kind who prefers the end of the day, the slow burn of the sun slipping away. And maybe that's okay. We were always meant to be on opposite sides of the horizon, watching the same sky from different angles.

And that's the thing about morning—no matter how many times I follow our trail, the steps I retrace are never quite the same. Each dawn is its own, a reflection of all that's come before, but with a light that's just a little different. Each one is a blue moon to me. And that's enough. It has to be.