I thought it might be a stranger.
Someone at a bar.
But no.
Not even a friend with a situation
or someone waiting on a response.

Today, my answer is different.

I want to talk to her.

Eleanor Grace.

I’ve come to believe that people who write are often two people.

There’s the one who walks through the world—
picking up groceries, cleaning, making decisions,
being needed, being polite,
being present for everyone else.

And then,
there’s the one who writes.

She doesn’t always live on the surface.
Waits patiently, quietly—beneath the noise.
Unbothered by calendars or clocks,
she shows up when the world finally hushes
and the soul can speak freely again.

She is the part of me that remembers who I am.

Who would I like to talk to soon?

The one who sees clearly when the dust settles.
Who sketches the soul in sentences.
Who doesn’t need an invitation
because she already belongs here.

And when she shows up,
I stop everything.

Because Eleanor Grace
just knows when it’s time.

So if you ask me who I’d like to talk to soon,
I’ll tell you:

Her.

She already knows what I haven’t said.
And she’s ready for me to put the world down—
to gather the pieces,
and tell the story.