I collect ducks—mostly small figurines. It started by accident: a couple of years ago a friend brought me a ceramic duck from a trip. Then I bought another one myself. Now I have around forty: porcelain, wooden, a couple of rubber ones from a toy store, and even one glass duck that I’m afraid to touch too often. There’s no deep philosophy behind it—I just like their shape and the fact that each one is slightly different. Sometimes I find new ones on online marketplaces or in souvenir shops.

In the evenings, I write novellas. Nothing ambitious—short stories of about 20–40 pages. Most of them are quiet, everyday prose: about people stuck in small towns, awkward kitchen conversations, or choices that seem minor but end up changing everything. I write in a simple text editor, sometimes print the pages and edit them by hand. I’ve submitted my work to a few online contests; one of them even made it to the shortlist, which felt good.

I genuinely enjoy staying home. I’m comfortable in a familiar setting: tea, a blanket, my laptop, and a quiet playlist in the background. I can go out to a café or a movie, but after a couple of hours I start feeling drained by people. At home, I feel a sense of control and calm. My duck collection stands on the shelf above my desk—it’s just part of the interior, a reminder that it’s okay to have slightly unusual but harmless hobbies.

From the outside, my life might look boring. But I feel at peace in it—and that matters more to me than anything else.