The map in my hands shows the roads, but none of them tell me where to stand.

I move through moments, tracing the edges, never the center.

A narrative flows around me, and I hesitate — turn the page, or linger in the whitespace?

Others move seamlessly, chapter to chapter, their pages numbered, their purpose clear.

I am a note in the margins, significant, yet separate.

Do I belong in these lines? Was I ever meant to be here? Or am I just an observer, reading a story that was never mine?