Somewhere in July, the sky no longer knows who it is.
It changes five times a day, like a woman in love who can’t decide which dress to wear: the clouds curl over rooftops, the wind whistles through the leaves like a tired soloist, and then — suddenly — a sliver of sunlight falls on the pavement like a revelation.

It’s a month without stability. A month with personality.
You wake up to heavy, misty air, smelling of damp earth, and by the time you finish your coffee, the sun has melted everything — even your doubts. Before you leave the house, the wind is already snatching hats and carrying thoughts elsewhere.

July is no longer calm.

It has become a month of transition — a month that seems unsure if it’s still summer or just the climate playing another unstable joke.
A month that burns and weeps in the same afternoon.
A month that makes you carry sunglasses, an umbrella, and something for the soul in your bag — just in case the cold comes from within.

A woman walks down the street with a transparent umbrella, even though the sun is blazing. You’re not surprised anymore. In July, umbrellas aren’t just for rain. They’re for anything. For confusion. For protection. For dancing, sometimes.

A man in a sweat-soaked shirt looks up at the clouds.
He doesn’t flinch when the heavy raindrops start to fall — thick, slow, like ellipses. He lets them land on his skin without protest.
He, too, has understood: summer is no longer what it used to be.
And maybe… neither are we.

The wind comes and goes, as indecisive as a forgotten promise.

And you walk through the city, slightly exposed, collar turned up not out of style, but out of meteorological — and emotional — caution.
It’s the kind of July where you don’t know if you want to fall in love or fall asleep.
Whether to run or to stay.

And still — still! — July holds a certain beauty.
A beauty born precisely from its instability.
Because between two rounds of rain, the sun hits buildings at the perfect angle.
Because once it soaks you to the bone, the air suddenly becomes breathable.
Because when nothing is predictable, everything becomes possible.

Somewhere in July, life no longer moves in straight lines.
It reveals itself in gusts, in sparks, in drops.
And maybe that’s exactly why you feel it more intensely than ever before.