Abruptly.

Abruptly, years begin to speak in the language of closed doors.

These photographs fading at the edges, a name we once said every day now resting quietly.

These small emergencies: which road to take, which dream to abandon, or which version of ourselves might finally be enough.

And all the while, time does not hurry, does not forgive. Just simply moves through us.

There are nights when the dark feels honest, when it holds every unfinished thing without asking it to shine. We lie awake beneath it, counting the lives we could have lived as if they were distant stars already gone from the sky.

One day, the clocks will keep breathing without us.

Our rooms will learn another silence. The choices that once felt like mountains will soften into dust.

So hold the trembling moment. Not because it lasts, but because it doesn’t.

Abruptly, we are here.

Abruptly, we are almost memory.