Last night, I dreamt I was late for something important.
A concert, maybe. Or an event. Or one of those life-altering things you don’t realize is life-altering until you’re sitting in the dark, wondering if you belong.

I was with my sister.
Then she wasn’t with me.
Then I didn’t care.

There was a line—crowded, loud, chaotic—but I cut through like I knew where I was going. Third in line. Third always feels like it still has to prove something.

They opened the doors.

But instead of walking into the venue,
we were walking out.

Like someone reversed the logic of the world.
Like progress was a loop back to outside.

I stepped into the light and landed in a theater with no stage.
Just rows of seats, like expectation without performance.

I sat.

I waited.

And she appeared again—my sister—carrying her own chair.
Like she found her place even if there was no room made for her.
That part made me want to cry and I don’t know why.

I asked, “Are you hungry?”

She said yes.
So I gave her money.
It felt like forgiveness.

She left to buy food, and then a girl—a stranger, maybe a younger version of me—reached for her chair.

I snatched it back.
Said, “Hey, that seat’s taken.”

And just like that, I understood:
I’m not late.
I’m not lost.
I’m the one holding the space.