Tonight
I almost wrote a goodbye.
Not because I hated life,
but because life felt
too heavy to carry alone.
The page was empty.
The pen waited.
And for a moment
I thought a few final words
could close the door
on all the noise inside me.
But the strange thing about silence
is that it listens back.
The room stayed still.
My breath kept moving.
The night did not ask me to leave.
I realized
what I wanted
was not an ending.
I wanted rest.
I wanted someone
to see the invisible weight
I had been holding quietly.
So the paper remained blank.
Not because the pain disappeared
but because something small
refused to give up.
A quiet thought
that said:
You don’t have to finish
your story tonight.
So I folded the page,
put the pen down,
and let the morning
have its chance.