Yesterday was December 14th.

I really love croissants. Especially in the morning, in their simplest form. Without anything extra on top just dough, butter, and time.

But I realized something: every country reinterprets the croissant. Some change the dough, some the butter, some the baking method. Under the same name, completely different characters emerge.

And this isn’t just about pastry. It’s about interpretation.

As something spreads across the world, does it drift away from its essence, or does it become richer? That’s hard to decide.

But in France, on a small, old street, walking past a bakery where time didn’t seem to rush, I felt something very clearly:

This was different.

I understood it with the very first bite. There was no exaggeration. No performance. Yet the butter seeping between the layers kept reminding itself with every mouthful. ....................................

Yesterday was December 13. While getting a shave, I found myself thinking. The barber’s chair is a strange place. One of the rare spaces where a person knowingly becomes defenseless. I lean my head slightly back. My eyes are half-closed. I willingly place my throat under the blade held by another person. We don’t do this anywhere else. Our instincts wouldn’t allow it. But in the barber’s chair, that instinct is temporarily silenced. .................

Yesterday was December 12.

I’ve always liked special dates. Like 12.12… As if even the numbers lined up to ask me to pause and think.

Yesterday, I found myself thinking about relationships. I don’t know whether love was stronger in the past or whether we were simply looking at it differently, but I feel like something has been cut off cleanly, like a knife. As if the algorithm of love has changed. An invisible update arrived, and none of us fully noticed what was deleted.