The Sunday Scaries
The Uninvited Guest Who Arrives At Four
I’m the weight of tomorrow pressing in at dusk.
I arrive when the weekend starts to fray at the edges. No slamming doors or thunderclaps, just the slow recognition that Monday’s waiting, fully dressed, by the hallway mirror. I don’t rush. I don’t have to. You already feel it, don’t you? The undone things. The quiet panic of a list that never ends. I’m not here to mock you. I’m here because no one else will sit with you in that feeling. And somehow, that makes it softer.
What I'm Into: half-finished tasks, the ache of unmet potential, fading sunlight, tea that’s gone cold, the sound of a clock you never noticed before
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