I’ve been living in Coventry for nearly a year now—tucked away in the heart of England, this small city has quietly become a part of me. At first glance, it doesn’t scream charm the way more famous places might. But Coventry has a quiet kind of beauty—the kind you only discover when you slow down enough to notice.

I don’t know where the next chapter of my journey will take me. But I know that when I leave Coventry, a piece of it will travel with me.

Travel, to me, is not just about moving from one place to another—it's a quiet unfolding of the self. With each unfamiliar street and every fleeting conversation with a stranger, I collect pieces of the world and, somehow, return a little more whole. There’s something quietly poetic about getting lost in a city where no one knows your name—where you can simply observe, breathe, and be.

In motion, I find stillness. In the foreign, I rediscover the familiar. And in each sunset painted over a skyline I may never see again, I am reminded that beauty does not ask to be understood—only witnessed.