Somewhere, a Story (Outro)

(Somewhere) You are no accident of stardust and time, no unfinished sentence, no half-forgotten rhyme. The particular way that the light hits your face, the specific weight of your step through this place, has never existed before, and will not again. You are not lost in the crowd, or a drop in the rain. (Somewhere) Somewhere, a story is shaped like your name. It is written in silence, in joy, and in pain. It is not in the trophies that sit on a shelf, but in how you have quietly spoken to yourself in the dark of the kitchen at three in the morning, a hand on the counter, a quiet adorning. You are not measured by likes, or by gold, or by tales that are bought, or by stories that sold. There is worth in the breath that you take without thought, in the battles you’ve lost and the wars you have fought just to stand here, unsteady, and call it a day. (Somewhere) Somewhere, a story is shaped like your name. It's the kindness you offered, the tear that you cried, the truth that you held to, deep down inside. It's the whisper of grace when the world felt too loud, a unique constellation emerging from the crowd. (Somewhere) So keep all the receipts, the dent in the door, the mug with the chip from the days before. The small cracked places, the hands that stayed, the messages unsent, the debt repaid. You do not need proof to be worthy of breath; your ordinary minutes are saying it best. That is the story, shaped like your name. You don’t have to say anything grand. You don’t have to be more. You are the shore, not the noisy sea’s roar. You can just simply be, with your coffee and doubt, with the routine of living, in and the out. For the universe whispered when you were first hurled: “You have a story to tell the world."