The Sunday Draft

It ends without telling you.

You replay it:
The unfolding. The feeling. The part where something nearly became.
And the part where it didn’t.

Almost.
Not nothing.
But not enough.

There’s a particular feeling to almost.
Not sharp like heartbreak.
Not loud like failure.
More like a mist.
Something you walk through,
slowly,
trying to name
what never fully took shape.

It makes you question your instincts.
Did I imagine it?
Was I too hopeful?
Too open?
Too… much?

But with time,
you learn:
Almost is not your enemy.

Almost means you reached.
You moved.
You grew.

You stood at the edge of something,
and for a moment,
you let yourself want.
And in that wanting—you honored yourself.

Not every chapter needs a climax.
Some simply close,
so you can turn the page
without noise.

And when the right thing comes—
you won’t wonder.

It won’t arrive in fragments
or future promises.
It will be whole.
Here.
Now.

It will rearrange the room.
Shift the air.
You’ll feel your pace quicken,
not out of fear—
but recognition.

You will meet it
not with performance,
but with presence.

It will not ask you to prove.
It will ask you to begin.

And you will.

Not cautiously.
Not halfway.

But all in.

Because when it’s right,
it doesn’t whisper maybe.
It says:
Now.