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You always thought the end would come with a clear sign. Something quiet, maybe, but certain — like a shift in the air or a sudden stillness in your chest. But it didn’t. It crept in without warning. It showed up in the way you forget what day it is. In how long you sit staring at nothing, just breathing. In the way people talk around you now, slower, softer. If you only had two years left, would you keep waiting for some obvious sign? Or would you look closer at the small things — the quiet, the pauses, the way your hands shake when no one is watching — and ask yourself if maybe time has already started whispering, and you just didn’t want to hear it. There is a weight you carry that doesn’t belong to anyone else. It’s made from moments you didn’t speak, love you didn’t return, pain you kept hidden because you didn’t want to be seen as weak. It’s not heavy all at once — just steady, like a quiet pressure in your chest that never leaves. You’ve told yourself it’s nothing, just tiredness, just the past, but you know it’s more. It’s every goodbye you never said properly, every memory you still visit when the room goes quiet. If you had two years left, maybe you’d finally let someone touch that weight — not to fix it, but simply to know it exists. You’ve learned how to pretend in ways that feel automatic now. You laugh when you’re hurting. You say you’re fine because it’s easier. You show up, smile, nod, agree — even when your heart feels like it’s drifting further from the surface. And no one notices, because you’ve always been the one who held things together. But if time were short, would you still do that? Or would you look someone in the eyes and say, “This is what I never said. This is what I never showed.” Not to be dramatic — just to be known. Not to be saved — just to be real, while there’s still time. You think about people who used to be in your life — the ones who slowly drifted away without a big reason. Maybe you stopped calling, or they did. Maybe it just got hard to keep being seen when you were always tired. Now you carry them in quiet places — a song, a certain season, the way someone’s laugh sounds too familiar. If you had two years left, would you reach out? Not to restart something, but just to say, “I still think of you. I remember what we shared. It mattered to me.” Maybe that would be enough. Maybe being remembered softly is the only closure you ever really needed.