At 25, most of my friends liked parties.
Weekend plans. Loud music. Laughter. Drinks.
The kind of stuff that looks great in stories.

I tried to enjoy it.
Sometimes I did.
But most of the time, I just felt… not myself.

In a party, I keep checking my phone.
Keep wondering when I can leave without it feeling rude.
There’s music, but no peace.
There are people, but no connection.

I smile, I talk, I nod — but inside, I’m thinking:
I’d rather be somewhere quiet.

Solo travel is the opposite.
No performance. No small talk. No pressure to “be fun.”
Just me, my thoughts, and wherever the road takes me.

I remember once I sat near the river in Kasol for almost two hours.
Didn’t talk. Didn’t click photos. Just watched the water.
It was cold. Still. Peaceful.
That’s it.
But it felt more real than any party I’ve been to.

I’m not against people.
But I like being in places where I don’t have to explain who I am.
No dress code. No social code.
Just space. Just breath.

Sometimes I come back from solo trips with no big stories.
No wild adventure.
Just a calm mind. A reset. A kind of silence that stays longer.

Tiny Gratitude Note

Thank you, hills.
Thank you, chai stalls on the highway.
Thank you, long walks alone —
For reminding me I can feel full
without noise.

[The Inner Notebook]