moving through days we do not own,
holding on to moments that were never ours to keep.
We speak of tomorrow like it’s promised,
like it’s waiting patiently for us to arrive.
But the truth is quieter than that,
and far less forgiving.
Nothing here stays.
Not the laughter,
not the people,
not even the version of ourselves we’ve just begun to understand.
And still - we go on.
We choose, we act, we become.
Because somewhere in the certainty of leaving
is the uncertainty of how we’ll be remembered.
Not if -
but how.
In the stories they tell,
in the silences they keep,
in the names they say with warmth… or with weight.
And maybe that’s where meaning lives -
not in how long we were given,
but in what we did with the borrowed time.
The kindness we offered without being asked.
The restraint we practiced when it would have been easier to hurt.
The courage to be better, even when no one was watching.
Because in the end,
we return everything -
except the impact.
And that…
that is the only thing we get to leave behind.
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