The Pesto Doesn’t Know Yet
Eleven years. One box. The pesto in the fridge doesn’t know yet — it still believes in Sunday, in continuity, in straight lines. A stranger hands you terrible cake. You eat it anyway. The universe does not owe you logic. It just offers. And takes. And offers again. You sit by the window. Breathing. Not knowing is not failure. Not knowing is how the door stays open.