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“Take the risk or lose the chance?” “If they wanted to, they would.” But no one ever talks about the quiet pain that lingers after not taking the risk and losing the chance; the ache that exists even when you wanted to, but simply couldn't. It’s not because you didn’t want to, it's not because you chose to walk away, not to risk it, or lose the chance but because your body had nothing left to give. Because you were tired—so tired—not the kind of tired a good night’s sleep could fix nor one that rest could cure, but the kind that has sunk deep into your bones—lived and already engraved; the kind that lingers in every breath, the kind that haunts the spaces between your thoughts. The kind of tiredness that even the brightest joys cannot break through. The invitation came. Opportunities are already tossed and laid out in front of you, yet somehow, you couldn't pick up any of it—your hands refused to reach out. Your hands—that are already burdened and trembling, weighed down by shards of broken dreams and the heavy postponement of hopes you once held close. The invitations came. Opportunities were laid out in front of you, yet somehow your hands refused to reach out. Your hands, already burdened and trembling, weighed down by shards of broken dreams and the heavy postponement of hopes you once held close. A simple gathering. An opportunity. A moment that mattered. You wanted to be there. You planned to be there. But the weight of everything—you, yourself, your exhaustion—caught up to you. Burnt out and barely holding yourself together, the thought of getting up, getting dressed, and showing up felt impossible. So you stayed. You chose rest. You told yourself it was only this once. You promised there would be more chances. A simple gathering, an opportunity, a moment that mattered. You wanted to go. You planned to go. But the weight of everything caught up to you. You were burnt out, barely holding yourself together, and the idea of getting up, getting dressed, being present—it felt impossible. So you stayed. You chose rest. You told yourself it was just this once. You told yourself there would be more time. And then, when you were finally feeling better—when the fog began to clear and your hands stopped shaking—you looked up, and it was over. The chance had passed. The moment had come and gone, quietly, like sand slipping through fingers you thought were finally ready to hold again. And that’s the cruel part: how healing takes time, but life doesn’t wait. You didn’t say no because you didn’t care. You said no because you were exhausted. But the world moved on anyway. And now all you have is the ache of something that might’ve meant everything, had it come just a little later—or had you broken just a little less. Then, when you were finally feeling better—when the fog lifted and your hands stopped shaking—you looked up. The moment was gone. The chance had passed quietly, like sand slipping through fingers you thought were ready to hold again. And that’s the cruelest part: healing takes time, but life doesn’t wait. You didn’t say no because you didn’t care. You said no because you were exhausted. But the world kept turning anyway. And all you’re left with is the ache of something that might have meant everything—had it come just a little later, or had you broken just a little less. Some chances don’t end with a loud slam, some drift away quietly, slipping through tired fingers. I’ve watched too many moments pass by, wearing familiar faces—each one almost right, almost said, almost done, almost. And maybe that’s the hardest part. Not the rejection. Not even the goodbye. But the haunting weight of what if that lingers long after. Some things aren’t lost because we let go. They’re lost because, no matter how much we wanted to hold on, fate didn’t want us to. Quod fugit, non redit. What has fled, does not return. Some opportunities and chances simply slip away from our fingers. No matter how much we try to grasp it., if we hold them loosely, they will slip away. Even when we try our hardest to hold on, sometimes it’s not enough—because sometimes, your body has already given upAnd I watched it—how it flew, how it slipped—while I could do nothing but bear witness. And I watch it… Slipping through my fingers all the time… Some chances don’t close with a loud slam, some drift away quietly, like sand slipping through tired fingers. I’ve watched too many moments pass me by wearing familiar faces, each one almost right, almost said, and almost did, almost. And maybe that’s the hardest part. Not the rejection, not even the goodbye, but the haunting weight of “what if” that lingers long after. Some things aren’t lost because we let them go. They're lost because, no matter how much we wanted to go, it was fate that didn't want us to hold. Quod fugit, non redit What has fled, does not return. Some opportunities and chances just slip away from our fingers. Even how much we try to grasp it, if we hold it loosely, it will slip away. Even though we try our best to tighten it, it's not enough because your body has already given up. And I watched how it flew… how it slipped… while I couldn't do anything but to witness it. And I watch it… Slipping through my fingers all the time…