I think I’m all out
of borrowed time—
all the second chances
I kept spending
like they’d never run out.
The warnings came.
In sleepless nights.
In empty bottles.
In promises
I swore I’d keep tomorrow.
In the people
who looked at me
like they were waiting
for me to save myself.
But tomorrow
kept moving.
And I kept acting
like there’d always be
one more sunrise
to get it right.
One more apology.
One more attempt.
One more chance
to become someone
I could live with.
Now I stand here
looking at the wreckage
of all the things
I thought I had time for.
And maybe
that’s the cruelest lesson—
how quickly forever
turns into someday,
and someday
turns into almost.
But I’m not writing this
as a eulogy.
I’m writing it
as a reckoning.
Because maybe
being out of borrowed time
isn’t about dying.
Maybe it’s about finally realizing
you can’t keep postponing
your own life.
Can’t keep waiting
for the perfect moment
to change.
Can’t keep treating
your future
like a guarantee.
So here I am.
Late.
Bruised.
Honest for once.
With nothing left
to borrow.
Only what’s in front of me.
Only this breath.
This day.
This chance.
And maybe—
maybe that’s enough.
Maybe life begins
the moment you stop acting
like you have forever.
Through the Fog 