You didn’t need this prediction, but here it is: the future will arrive exactly on time, and it will be slightly smaller than you imagined.

This is not a warning. It’s more like a quiet observation from someone who has seen the way people hold their coffee cups when they’re pretending to listen. The future doesn’t announce itself with fanfare—it just slips in through the back door, wearing the same shoes as yesterday.

You’ve been waiting for something to change, but the only thing that ever really changes is the way you describe the waiting. The words get shorter. The pauses get longer. This could have been a box.

There’s a certain comfort in knowing that uncertainty is the only constant. It’s like a bad Wi-Fi signal—you complain about it, but you’d miss it if it were gone. The static becomes part of the conversation.

At some point, you’ll realize that all the predictions you’ve ever heard were just echoes of the same thought: “What if nothing happens?” And then, of course, something does. But it’s never the thing you were waiting for.

This text doesn’t help. It doesn’t solve anything. It’s just a placeholder for the thought you were about to have, written by someone who also forgot what they were going to say.

The future is already here. It’s in the way your screen flickers when you open too many tabs. It’s in the way you nod at strangers who aren’t really there. It’s in the box you didn’t know you were holding.

And now, like all good predictions, this one will dissolve before you can decide whether it was true.