Let’s talk about time.
Time is a thief, a healer, a weight, a whisper.
It moves too fast when you want it to stop,
and it drags when you’re waiting for someone to return.

They say time heals all wounds,
but no one ever tells you
that healing doesn’t mean forgetting.
That some scars don’t fade—
they just learn to live with you.

I wonder how time moves for you.
Do your days stretch long and empty,
or do they slip through your fingers,
gone before you ever had the chance to hold them?

Because for me, time lingers in the spaces between moments.
In the silence after a message left on read.
In the half-second before a goodbye
that I didn’t know was the last.

Time is cruel that way.
It lets you think you have more of it—
more chances, more words, more us—
until suddenly, you don’t.

And maybe that’s why I write,
why I speak, why I hold onto words like lifelines.
Because if time is going to steal from me,
at least I’ll leave something behind.

So tell me—
how does time move for you?
Or are you, too, just trying to outrun it?