There is a quiet moment at the beginning of summer when everything feels suspended. The light lingers a little longer in the evenings, but the air has not quite settled into heat. The water waits, still holding the memory of spring. You stand at the edge of it, aware that something is about to change.
It is a season of anticipation. The kind that hums softly beneath ordinary days. You begin to notice small shifts. The way the sun touches your shoulders a little more warmly. The way the evenings stretch just far enough to feel like possibility. Nothing has fully arrived, yet everything feels on its way.
There is a certain beauty in this in-between. It asks for patience. For lingering just a moment longer before stepping forward. A dress worn with a light layer that will soon be unnecessary. Sandals brought out, but not yet worn every day. The quiet preparation for a season that promises more than it reveals.
You find yourself imagining what is to come. Long afternoons near water. The slow heat settling into your skin. The kind of days that seem endless until suddenly they are gone. It lives in your mind before it ever fully arrives.
Before the water warms, everything feels possible.