Thought about death again tonight. Not the dramatic kind, just the quiet one that sneaks in when everything else is too loud.

Balcony door cracked, cool air mixing with leftover coffee smell. Phone dark for once—no scroll, no notifications. Just me, the hum of the air conditioner, distant freeway drone like white noise for insomniacs. Mind wandered to how fragile this all is: one wrong heartbeat, one bad intersection, one silent night that doesn’t end. Not scary exactly. More… strange. Like realizing the game you’ve been playing has an exit you can’t see.

Remembered my friend’s last call—voice thin, saying “don’t worry, it’s just like falling asleep.” I nodded through the phone, but inside I panicked because what if it’s not? What if it’s nothing at all? No fade to black, no dream, just… off. Switch flipped. All the small things I chase—better job, more likes, another coffee run—suddenly feel like scribbling notes on water. They’ll vanish anyway.

But then a car passed below, headlights sweeping the street, and for a second I felt oddly grateful. Grateful for the ache in my back from bad posture, the half-finished draft on my laptop, the way the city light catches dust in the air. These tiny proofs I’m still here, still running the loop.

Death isn’t coming tonight. Maybe not tomorrow. So I’ll keep breathing this borrowed air, keep typing nonsense, keep feeling the weight and the wonder of it all.