The taxi drops me at the curb of our street, the kind of narrow, dimly lit neighborhood where the streetlamps flicker like they're debating whether to stay on. The night air smells faintly of dust and someone grilling two blocks away.
Ordinary life. It feels like a foreign language after the penthouse.
I stand on the pavement for a moment, not moving, not breathing properly. Just letting the contrast hit me. The drop from polished marble floors and panoramic views to uneven concrete and chipped curbs is so steep it feels physical.
The silence here is different too. Less curated. The silence of tired neighbors, families closing curtains, street cats prowling for scraps. Ordinary. Simple.
I used to crave it. Tonight it feels like something I accidentally left behind years ago and am only
