You say you don’t want to lose me, say stay, say try, say breathe— but it’s not about trying anymore, trying is something I already gave teeth. Yes, I’ve had these thoughts before, but this time they don’t just pass. They don’t sit in my head like plans or storms, they live in my bones, my back, my grasp. It’s like my body knows something I’m scared to name out loud, like every second I’m subconsciously counting the space between now. I notice how solid the world feels— stone under skin when I sit, the dog’s warm breath, the weight of touch, how real every second is. And I drift back to the thought again, without deciding to go there. My eyes burn. I don’t know why I’m crying, or why leaving is everywhere. This time is different. I can’t push it back alone. It’s not panic—it’s a quiet knowing, a tightening thread, a pulling tone. I feel myself nearing a moment, not an ending, but a line— where I’ll have only seconds to choose between silence or reaching for a sign.