the grit under my shoes in the office parking lot, that's the first thing i noticed. not the usual dread, not the clench, just the slight resistance as i walked toward the door, like something real holding me here. funny, isn’t it? the photo on my desk didn't sting today, didn’t feel like a lecture from a ghost, more like… a knowing glance. and that makes the pretending lighter, because it's not really pretending anymore, it's just… choosing what to show, what to protect, like armor worn with intention, not desperation. the squeak of my sneakers on the court, that's the only thing in my head besides where i need to be, i can't explain how profound that is, but to just be in a space and the only thing i'm thinking about is the ball and the next shot and i can't even remember the work i did earlier in the day or the emails i still have to send… that's the goal, i think.