First entry

23:52.
According to the laptop, which feels annoyingly confident about it. End of the year. Almost a year here. Close enough to notice. Not close enough to celebrate.

I’m on a sofa that isn’t mine, in an apartment that smells like someone else’s fabric softener, telling myself - again - that I’ll find a proper place after the holidays. I’ve been saying that for months. Long enough to suspect I’m lying. Short enough to keep going.

Almost a year in Sofia.
That phrasing feels safer. Less commitment. Like I could still pretend this is temporary if I say it fast enough.

People love this night. Counting things. Wrapping experiences in meaning. I’m skipping that part. I don’t trust conclusions reached under fireworks. I already know the rough outline anyway: some bad decisions made with confidence, a few good ones made by accident, and a lot of moments that refused to stay where I put them.

That’s where the writing came from. Not intention. Not ambition. Just a need to get things out of my head before they started looping. Somewhere along the way, there were too many pages to keep calling it a phase. That part snuck up on me.

So tonight, instead of dressing up or pretending I’m nostalgic, I built a website. On New Year’s Eve. Which feels exactly like something I would do. Not a launch. Not a statement. Just acknowledging that the words exist and aren’t planning on disappearing quietly.

Sofia hasn’t noticed. Of course it hasn’t. The city doesn’t care about dates or almost-anniversaries. It doesn’t do countdowns. It just sits there - grey, steady, mildly unimpressed - while you decide whether you’re staying or still passing through.

I don’t have resolutions. I have habits I’ll defend. Cigarettes I won’t quit tonight. A page that exists now and can be read by strangers, which feels both unnecessary and inevitable.

If you’re reading this - hi.
It’s late. It’s almost a year.
That’s as precise as I’m willing to be.

Midnight will happen without my input.

Let’s see what carries over.