What If

At night, my mind builds entire futures out of nothing, brick by brick of catastrophe, each thought stacking on the last until I'm buried under buildings that don't exist yet.

What if I choose wrong. What if the path I'm on leads nowhere, or worse, leads exactly where I'm afraid of, some version of failure I haven't even imagined yet but somehow already fear.

What if I wake up in ten years in a life that doesn't fit, wearing a future like a borrowed coat, too tight in places I didn't know could ache.

What if everyone else already knows the secret to moving forward without this weight, already found their footing while I'm still staring at the map, paralyzed by every possible road.

I want certainty in a world that offers none, want someone to hand me proof that I'll be okay, that the choices I haven't made yet won't unravel everything I'm trying to build.

But the future doesn't work that way, it doesn't owe me answers in advance, doesn't soften just because I've asked it to nicely, desperately, on my knees at 3 a.m.

Maybe the fear isn't a warning. Maybe it's just what it feels like to care about where you're going, to want something badly enough that losing it feels like a possibility worth staying up for.

Maybe I don't need to solve tomorrow tonight. Maybe I just need to survive today, and let tomorrow arrive on its own time, whether I'm ready or not, whether I've worried enough or not nearly enough at all.