What Happens Next
What happened?
No, seriously.
What the fuck happened?
I had plans. I had time.
I had— Yeah.
I've done this conversation before.
Maybe it was that year.
Maybe that girl.
Maybe that job
that knocked something loose in my world.
Maybe I stayed too long.
Maybe I left too fast.
Maybe I made one wrong
decision and built ten more on that.
I've interrogated every memory,
Put every year on trial.
Cross-examined younger versions of me For a fucking mile.
Same question. Different night.
What happened to my life?
What happened? What happened?
Like the answer's gonna change the facts.
What happened? What happened?
Like knowing brings a damn thing back.
I can name every scar.
Put a date on every crack.
But I'm getting fucking tired
OF ASKING WHAT HAPPENED.
I know who disappointed me.
Know where I fucked up.
Know the doors that didn't open,
Know the ones I slammed shut.
Know exactly what I'd tell myself
If twenty-five walked in.
Great.
Beautiful. Useful. He's not fucking coming in.
Maybe I need one more explanation.
One more reason. One more— No.
I stopped asking what happened.
And started asking—
what happens next?
Next?
That's a different fucking question.
Next has doors.
Next has teeth.
Next doesn't give a shit
Who I was supposed to be.
Next might work. Next might not.
Next might burn the whole damn plan.
But at least “next” requires something FROM THE MAN I ACTUALLY AM.
I stopped asking what happened!
Started asking what happens next!
Past already gave its statement— I don't need another witness!
Keep the reasons! Keep regrets!
Keep the answers I can't fix!
I stopped asking what happened— WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENS NEXT?
Call somebody.
Build something.
Leave something. Start.
Fuck it up.
Try again.
But move.
I don't need to forgive every year.
Don't need to understand every scar.
Don't need some perfect explanation for how the hell we got this
far. Maybe someday I'll look backward.
Tonight— I've got a better question.
Not: “What happened to me?” “WHAT HAPPENS NEXT?”
No answer.
Good.