𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐄𝐆𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐒 ~| 𝘓𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘰 𝘕𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘪𝘴

See The Light

~'~

𝐈𝐧 𝐦𝐲 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭, 𝐚 𝐛𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐟𝐥𝐚𝐦𝐞

𝐈 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐢𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝𝐧'𝐭 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞

𝐇𝐞𝐫 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐞

𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐬𝐮𝐜𝐡 𝐚 𝐬𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠

𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐝𝐢𝐝𝐧'𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐚 𝐟𝐚𝐥𝐥

𝐃𝐢𝐝𝐧'𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐭 𝐚𝐥𝐥

‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿

I wish there was a way of knowing you're in 'the good old days' before you've actually left them behind.

That way, maybe you could appreciate them more, hold onto them tighter, like you were clutching a fistful of sand slipping through your fingers. But life doesn't give us that luxury, does it? It just keeps moving forward, whether we're ready or not. And all we can do is try to keep up, hoping we're not letting the important moments slip away.

There's no announcement when everything changes. No warning signs or ringing bells to tell you that the moment you're living in will be the last time you'll feel truly whole.

Happiness doesn't walk in and tell you it's on borrowed time; it arrives quietly and leaves just as softly, slipping from your grasp before you've realized it's gone. And the cruelest part? You never know the last time you'll feel it until it's gone.

I think about that sometimes. About the fragility of now. About how you could smile at me today, and it could be the last time I see you look at me like that. I wouldn't even know.

They never tell you that the best days of your life won't feel like the best at all. They're ordinary.

But there are no guarantees.

I wonder if I'd have held you tighter if I'd known. If I'd have memorized the weight of your hand in mine, the exact shade of green in your eyes when the sun hit just right. If I'd have begged time to give me one more second, not to do anything grand or important, but just to be in your orbit a little longer.

Instead, I just let life happen, as if it were infinite, as if everything we built couldn't splinter under its weight. As if tomorrow was something solid we could lean on.

And yet, I don't regret a second of it.

There is a quiet violence in the passing of time.

We don't notice it at first. The days stretch ahead, infinite in their promise, and we wander through them as though we are immortal. But the violence is always there, carving us down moment by moment, stealing seconds as a thief steals gold, slowly, steadily, until the chest is empty.

And one day, you look around and realize how much is gone. How many versions of yourself have been laid to rest. How many faces have slipped away, not in bitterness or anger, but simply because time pulled you apart, quietly but without mercy. We call it nostalgia to soften the blow,

to give the ache a name that feels less sharp, but there is nothing soft about it. It is a blade to the ribs, a twisting reminder that what was can never be again.

And yet, within this quiet violence, there is also grace. A fragile, terrible beauty in the way we keep going, even as the pieces of our lives crumble around us. We build towers of new beginnings atop the ruins of what was, knowing full well that they, too, will fall.