In the quiet moments, as the light fades and the cicadas hum, there’s a whisper of fear that flutters in my chest. It isn’t fear of aging, or even of being found out. It’s the fear of missing life while I’m still in it — of rushing past the beauty I swore I’d savor.
What if I forget to pause long enough to feel the grass under my feet? What if I don’t laugh quite loud enough or hug quite long enough? That’s the fear that lingers sometimes, in the stillness.
But each time it surfaces, I use it as a quiet push — to dance barefoot, to soak in every golden hour, to breathe and remember that this moment is the only one that matters.