I jumped into the river without knowing how deep it ran, or whether my swimming was good enough to save me. It wasn’t courage — it was desperation disguised as hope. And somewhere between panic and surrender, just when the river began to pull me under, a boat arrived. Not an old, weathered one… but a new one. Fresh wood. New fragrance. A promise.

I didn’t step into it gracefully. I clung to it — breathless, shaken, grateful.

That was three years ago.

Since then, this little boat has carried me across storms I never imagined I would survive. In these three years I’ve watched friendships dissolve, witnessed death up close, and seen families crumble under tragedies that changed me forever. When someone you know is shot point-blank, when a friend you made future plans with suddenly disappears from this world — something shifts inside you. Your definition of life, purpose, even time… rewrites itself.

But this boat, this home, this chapter — it held me.

It sheltered a stranger in a new city. It absorbed my silent battles. It watched me break and rebuild, sometimes on the same day. It gave me the dignity of space and the safety of solitude. It placed me in the heart of the city—three railway stations, endless buses, malls five minutes away. Watching a movie simply meant stepping out of the door. Hosting friends felt effortless.

It was a good life. A life that saved me.

And now, on December 7, 2025, the river slows, and I must step off the very boat that once rescued me. Not because it failed me — but because the journey has changed.

As I pack, memories are rushing back. Good energies remain here now, waiting for the next wanderer who needs a safe harbour.

I don’t know what the future holds.
But I know this—today, I stand at the riverbank, thankful for the voyage, for the storms that shaped me, and the boat that didn’t let me drown.

New adventures await.
And once again, I leap—
this time not out of fear,
but faith.