There was a time when summers felt alive — not rushed, not heavy, just full of quiet energy.
From March to August, the climate itself felt different: clear skies, warm sunlight, calm winds, and a softness that touched the heart before the skin.

I would return from school around 2 p.m.
My mother would already be waiting, food warm, made with love — the kind of food that doesn’t just fill your stomach, it comforts you. After that, if there was any homework, I finished it quickly. And then, exactly at 4 p.m., without delay, my feet would carry me to my favourite place — the rooftop.

Up there, the sky felt closer.

The blue was deep and honest, the clouds pure white, floating freely. I would sit calmly, always facing the east direction, letting the environment sink into me. There was no overthinking then. No stress. No tension. No desires running in my mind.
It felt as if nature itself had invited me — calling me gently, making me feel that I belong.

I enjoyed the evening deeply, but interestingly, I never liked watching the sunset.
Maybe because sunset indicates endings. And being an emotional soul, I never liked the idea of something ending. I always wanted moments to stay… just a little longer.
So while others looked west, my face stayed east, absorbing the softness of the evening without witnessing the sun disappear.

That time of day had a magic of its own.

By 6 p.m., the neighbourhood would come alive. Children would start gathering — laughter echoing, footsteps running, voices calling each other’s names. That was our signal: playtime had begun.
We played so many games, danced without music, talked endlessly, laughed loudly. That phase of the evening was filled with togetherness — so pure that none of us wanted it to ever change.

By 8 p.m., one by one, everyone returned home.
And the evening — my evening — would gently come to rest.

Those evenings were the best part of my life.
A time when I was connected to nature, free with friends, present without trying. Just being.

Now that I’ve grown up, I realise something quietly painful — no matter how much I want to, I cannot fully recreate that feeling. Life has become faster, noisier, heavier. Responsibilities exist where innocence once lived.
Yet, somewhere deep inside me, that little version of myself still wants to play.

I still love to play.
Maybe not with the same games, not in the same lanes — but the desire is alive.
Because some evenings don’t leave us.
They become a part of who we are.

And whenever life feels overwhelming, I close my eyes and return there —
to the rooftop,
the blue sky,
the white clouds,
and the calm east-facing breeze of a summer evening that never truly ended.

— Written with love,
Dolly

I write about life, healing, beauty, and quiet moments.
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