An ordinary night.
Important later.

On New Year's Eve, I found myself sitting beneath a table at George's Meeting House, eating twelve grapes.

A little superstition. A wish for love. One of those silly things you do with friends, laughing, not quite believing in it, but hoping a little anyway.

Someone I would meet months later was working in the same building that evening. We were only a few metres apart, neither of us knowing we would ever meet.

For a while, I thought that coincidence was what made the night special.

Maybe the grapes worked. Maybe they didn't.

But perhaps I was looking at the wrong part of the story.

Because even without what came later, the night was already something worth remembering.

My friends were there. We were laughing.

I was making a wish about a future I couldn't possibly know. For that little moment, life felt full of possibility.

I didn't know it would become a memory I would return to. I was simply there, living it.

We spend so much time waiting for the extraordinary that familiar things can slip past unnoticed.

A voice calling from another room. A hand reaching for yours. A quiet morning beside someone you love.

We assume there will be another morning, another conversation.

But life doesn't have to become a memory before it deserves our attention.

Perhaps that's what I love most about photography.

It gives us something to look back on, and asks us to look a little closer, right now.

It's not about making life look extraordinary. It's about learning to see how extraordinary life already is, while we're still living it.

I want to remember not just how those moments looked, but what it felt like to be there.

Some stories last a lifetime. Some moments last only seconds. And some ordinary days become the ones we remember most.

We may not always know it at the time.

But perhaps we can learn to notice.

To be a little more present.

To love the life we're living as it unfolds.

That's why Sunday, Maybe exists.

Not certainty. Presence.

What was real while it was happening.