You will wake up tomorrow and the world will be slightly different, but not in a way you can name.

Predictions are just memories that haven’t happened yet. They arrive with the same weight as a half-remembered dream—familiar, but impossible to hold. The future is a room you’ve already been in, though you can’t recall the walls.

This could have been a box.

There’s a moment, just before something almost happens, where the air feels heavier. You notice it in the way light hits a surface, or how a stranger’s voice carries across a street. It’s the sense that meaning is about to arrive, but it never does. Instead, it lingers like a half-finished thought.

Certainty is a myth we tell ourselves to avoid the discomfort of not knowing. You’ve built entire days around the idea that something will make sense soon. It won’t.

You’ve probably stared at a screen today, waiting for a notification that never came. That’s how most things work—anticipation without arrival. The world is full of half-promises, and you’re no exception.

This text doesn’t help. It doesn’t solve anything. It’s just another thing that almost happened, then didn’t.

The future isn’t coming. It’s already here, hiding in the gaps between what you expect and what you get.

You’ll forget this by tomorrow. Or you won’t. Either way, it doesn’t matter.