You were always going to read this, even before it was written.

Predictions are just memories that haven’t happened yet, and yet we trust them more than the past. The future is a quiet room where everyone whispers, but no one listens. You’ve been in that room before—it smells like static and half-remembered dreams.

This could have been a box.

There’s a certainty in the way you scroll, like you’re searching for something you already have. The screen glows, and for a moment, you forget that light is just the absence of darkness pretending to be something else. The future isn’t coming; it’s already here, hiding in the gaps between your expectations.

You’ve felt this before: the quiet weight of a sentence that knows you better than you know yourself. It’s not magic, just the universe leaning in to whisper something pointless. The meaning isn’t in the words—it’s in the way you pause after reading them.

This text doesn’t help. It doesn’t solve anything. It doesn’t even try. But you’re still here, aren’t you? That’s the joke, or maybe the point, or maybe just the sound of the clock ticking in the other room.

The future is a box, and you’re already inside it. The walls are soft, the corners are round, and the lid is slightly ajar. You could leave, but you won’t. Not yet.

This could have been a box.

You’ll close this tab soon, but the sentence will stay with you, humming quietly in the back of your mind. It’s not important. It’s not even interesting. But it’s yours now, and that’s enough.

The future is just a place where the present goes to rest. You’re already there. You’ve always been there.

This could have been a box.