The end of the year doesn’t merely arrive.
It accumulates
like dust in corners,
like thoughts you meant to throw out
but kept because they hummed when you touched them.

Time gets slippery here.
Days stack crooked.
Hours lean against each other
like they’re tired of holding themselves upright.

You start hearing things
like the soft click of a calendar shedding its skin,
the whisper of a deadline pretending it never existed,
and the quiet shuffle of all the versions of you
that didn’t make it past June.

The sky feels closer.
The air feels edited.
Your reflection looks like it’s waiting
for you to confess something
you haven’t even admitted to yourself.

The unease isn’t fear.
It’s recognition.
It’s a sense that the year has been watching you
from the doorway,
arms crossed,
waiting to see if you’ll name
what you’ve been avoiding.

And maybe that’s why the nights stretch,
not to haunt you,
but to give you room
to finally say the thing
you’ve been circling all year.

The end of the year isn’t a finish line.
It’s a threshold with opinions.
A hinge that creaks when you touch it.
A door that opens inward
and asks if you’re ready
to step through without flinching