The morning after an ending

The morning after an ending is always quiet. No more words left to say, no more scenes left to play out. Just a room bathed in the indifferent light of a clouded morning, a clock that never stopped ticking, and a breath that continues, steady, surprised by its own persistence.

In front of me lies a blank page.

No promises, no instructions. A freedom I never asked for, yet one I must now claim.

Endings are abrupt, loud in their finality. They announce themselves with slammed doors, whispered goodbyes, the weight of papers signed and keys left behind. But beginnings, beginnings slip in unnoticed. They do not come with fireworks or grand revelations. They arrive in the stillness, in the quiet acceptance that there is no way back, only forward.

It's time to close my eyes and wait.

Maybe new stories are not written in a rush of inspiration, but in the silence that settles when there is nothing left to hold on to. Maybe before I can begin again, I must learn to exist in the space between what was and what could be.