There is a moment, just before the moment, where everything feels like it might finally make sense.

You’ve been waiting for it. Not actively, not with a timer or a calendar reminder, but in the way that a plant leans toward a window. There’s an expectation baked into the air, a quiet hum that suggests something is about to shift. It never does, of course. But the anticipation is real.

Predictions are just stories we tell ourselves to feel prepared. The future isn’t a destination—it’s a series of half-remembered dreams you swear you’ve had before. You wake up, check your phone, and realize nothing has changed. This could have been a box.

Certainty is a myth, but uncertainty is overrated. You don’t need to know what’s coming next to feel like you’re moving. The floor beneath you is solid enough, even if it’s just a temporary illusion. The walls around you are thin, but they hold.

There’s a strange comfort in knowing that most things don’t matter. Not in the grand, existential way, but in the small, daily way. The way your coffee cup leaves a ring on the table. The way you forget to reply to a message and then forget you forgot. The way the light hits the wall at exactly 3:17 PM and makes you think, for a second, that you’ve seen this before.

This text won’t help you. It won’t solve anything or make you feel better. It’s just a collection of words arranged in a way that feels intentional. Like a box that’s empty but still takes up space.

You’ll close this tab soon. Maybe you’ll remember a line or two, maybe you won’t. Either way, something almost happened here. And that’s enough.