kid.

This is the youngest you'll ever be, a truth that lands softly, then sharp, like sunlight grazing your skin before it burns. You sit here, phone in hand, eyes caught in the endless scroll, thumb tracing the same path over and over, as if trying to uncover some secret in the glow of a screen that cannot look back at you. Time holds its breath, then exhales, a single moment slipping between your fingers, unnoticed, until you feel it—that fleeting ache, the whisper that says: "Remember this, because it is already gone." The future waits, patient and indifferent, like a door slightly ajar, hinges creaking softly in the wind. It doesn’t call you, doesn’t urge or beg. It simply waits, knowing you will come eventually, knowing that every second spent here is a second you owe it. And yet you sit. The weight of potential presses against your chest, a quiet, invisible burden. The youngest you'll ever be, the oldest you've ever felt, caught between the urgency of now and the inertia of being.