Kate Didd

(Day 97)

I can’t believe I’m sitting here again.

Same rooftop bar. Same hotel. Same city that used to hold pieces of me I wasn’t strong enough to carry yet. It’s almost ritual at this point, I come back here when something “horrific” happens.

Except… it’s not horrific.

It’s a funeral.

Another person has walked away from this life, and I’m here like I always am, drink in hand, staring out at the river like it might tell me something new this time.

But it doesn’t.

Or maybe it does, and I’m just finally quiet enough to hear it.

The water is dark tonight. Ominous. Heavy. The sky is painted in those soft blue-pink clouds that feel almost too pretty for the weight of the moment. Like the world is unraveling and somehow still choosing beauty.

And I sit here thinking… maybe I’ve become cynical.

Or maybe I’ve just lived through enough to stop being afraid of endings.

I swear I’ve slipped through more than nine lives. At some point, death stops feeling like a threat and starts feeling like a boundary you’ve already brushed your fingers against. Not crossed but close enough to understand it doesn’t own you.

And this place, this rooftop, this view, it’s become my testing ground.

I come back to remind myself I don’t have to live in fear anymore.

The repetition of it. Crossing the same borders. Sitting in the same chair. Breathing in the same air. It’s like exposure therapy for a life that used to trigger me at every turn.

And now?

I’m not panicked.
I’m not angry.
I’m not even sad.

I feel… nothing in particular.

Just a pause.

A stillness so complete it almost feels unnatural.

Like I’ve stepped into a frozen piece of time where nothing moves, not forward, not backward, not up, not down.

Just… suspended.

The same types of people are here. The same conversations looping like background noise. And somehow, right in the middle of all of it, the John Deere Classic has taken over the city.

It’s packed.

Golf polos. Loud laughter. Deals being made in half-sentences and side glances.

And here’s the part that makes me laugh quietly to myself, I understand them now.

A year ago? I didn’t know anything about golf. Didn’t care to. Didn’t belong in these conversations.

Now I’m being hit on by C-suite executives who want to golf on weekends and casually mention going pro someday.

And I sit here watching them like it’s a live documentary.

Because the truth?

They all hate each other.

You can see it in the micro-expressions, the tension behind the smiles, the calculated pauses. It’s psychological warfare dressed up as leisure.

And it’s fascinating.

Truly.

Because I’m not in it.

I’m outside of it.

Unplugged.

Hidden in my little cove, my safe space tucked away from everyone, even when I’m surrounded by them.

This rooftop has always been that for me.

A place where I can disappear without leaving.

And tonight, something else is different.

The bridge.

There used to be a different one in this exact view. I remember it so clearly. It held memories I don’t revisit often.

They tore it down.

Built something new.

And it’s… beautiful.

That’s the part that stays with me.

Change can be destructive.

It can rip through everything you thought was permanent. It can dismantle the structures you leaned on, the ones you thought defined you.

And still. It can be beautiful.

I think that’s why I come back.

To prove to myself that places that once held pain don’t have to keep it.

That I can return, sit in the exact same spot, and feel something entirely different.

Or feel nothing at all.

And somehow, that’s even more powerful.

Because it means I’m no longer owned by what happened here.

I’m no longer just the sum of what people did to me.

I’m something else now.

Someone else.

Someone I actually love.

There’s a calm that moves through me here now. Not the kind that comes from escape but the kind that comes from integration.

Like I’ve finally gathered all the versions of myself that existed here and said, you can come with me, but you don’t get to control me anymore.

And maybe that’s why this feels so surreal.

Because this used to be home.

And now it’s just… a place I visit.

A chapter I can reread without getting stuck in.

I enjoy it. I really do.

But I don’t miss it.

Not even a little.