I owned my kitchen a little later than most.
On a weekend morning, while the family slept in,
I found myself making breakfast in silence.
And from somewhere deep inside —
came this strange, quiet joy.
It was a small kitchen.
But it was mine.
Styled the way I like it.
And somehow, that alone was enough.
The magic of barley tea.
Barley tea, boiling in a clear glass pot.
Even after all this time,
its warm, earthy scent still wraps around me.
And in that moment,
just like always—
I am quietly, completely happy.
The joy of peeling garlic.
That day, I found myself strangely happy—
dopamine-level happy—just peeling garlic.
Even with a broken brain,
I still wished for one thing,
quietly and desperately:
To stay this happy.
For a long, long time.
That season of quiet togetherness.
There was a time when simple days with my family
were the engine that kept me going.
This space—
unchanged, even now—
was my strength.
And my reason to hold on.
It still is.
A cold in the heart.
And again,
I find myself falling apart.
A warm remake of happiness.
Today, I opened up some old notebooks from the past.
Not out of regret—
but to remind myself that things were once warm,
and maybe, still are.
Life gets heavy sometimes.
But when it does,
just scroll through your phone gallery.
Remake those happy moments.
Let them be your small-dose vaccine
against the weight of today.
It works.
At least, for me. ๐ญ๐๐
๐This was HaruJini.๐
'ํ๋ฃจ์ผ์ > ๐ํ๋ฃจ์ง๋์ ์กฐ๊ฐ ์ผ๊ธฐ์ฅ' ์นดํ ๊ณ ๋ฆฌ์ ๋ค๋ฅธ ๊ธ
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