Back home, my room felt like a quiet island. I sat by the window, watching the bikers outside.
They were showing off their rides, engines rumbling low and loud, lights flashing in the early evening.
It was like some kind of rough dance — leather jackets, tattoos, engines growling, engines roaring.
They were wild, free in a way I could only dream of. I wanted that freedom. I wanted to be part of that world but without the pain.
The sky was turning a soft blue-gray, the kind of color that promised rain or you know, a storm. We were in the rainy season.
It made me think of the paintings I wanted to make — wild storms, swirling sky, lightning cracking open the darkness.
I pressed my forehead against the cool glass, trying to hold onto the calm of the moment.
Suddenly, there was a soft
