Don't we all walk through our days believing there will always be more of them? As if the people we love will remain exactly as they are, as if our bodies will never falter, as if the doors we leave slightly open will wait for our return. We postpone conversations, delay forgiveness, assume there will be another summer, another visit, another chance to say what we meant to say properly but time is not gentle, and it is not loyal, it does not pause because me feel unprepared. What hurts isn't aging, it's realizing how many endings happened without your permission, the last time you spoke to someone who once knew everything about you, the last time your parents carried you without strain, the last time you believed the world was mostly good and mostly safe. You didn't know you were saying goodbye, you were just living, and now you understand that growing up is a series of quiet burials, unnoticed funerals of versions of yourself you can never return to, and the cruelest part is knowing you would have held them tighter if you had known.