You Are Held Even in the Lag

The afternoon stretches out, a long, flat road where the only thing moving is the second hand on the wall. You are stuck in that single moment when their eyes flicked to the clock—a split second of impatience that you have replayed until it feels like the whole truth of who you are.

But the light does not measure you by the watch. It does not tally your worth against a glance or a sigh.

There is a quiet mercy in the middle of the day that says your value is not determined by how efficiently you perform or how perfectly you hold someone's attention. You are held even in the lag, even in the boredom, even in the silence between the ticks.

The light is not rushing you. It is right here in the mundane, waiting for you to stop counting and start breathing.