Thankful for the small things, the tiny things, the in-between things—the way the wind sneaks through the cracks in the morning, whispers of coffee steam curling like ghostly lullabies, the scuff of a shoe on pavement, the hush of a friend’s voice saying I hear you. The weight of a book in your hands, the rhythm of a song that rattles your bones just right, headlights stretching long down an empty road.

I have loved stars that collapsed into themselves. People who once burned with the kind of brilliance that made you believe in something bigger—something divine. They carried light in their hands, in their words, in the way they saw the world with wild, unfiltered wonder. But like Icarus, like Lucifer, like every fallen thing that ever thought itself untouchable, they flew too high, reached too far, believed themselves invincible.

The best is not behind you. The best is not in the hands you have already let go of, in the love that has already left, in the dreams that have already withered. The best is ahead, waiting for you to stop gripping the bones of something long dead.