Somewhere I'll never be.

I’ve been thinking about what it means to be a writer, not in the sense of success or craft, just in terms of what actually happens. What we make. What we don’t.

We only ever get half.

I write something. I know what I intended. I know the shape I tried to give it. But the moment someone else reads it, it becomes something I can’t see. They bring in their own meaning. Their own memories. Their own pace, their own way of missing or noticing things.

I can’t follow them into that version. I don’t know what it looks like. I don’t know if it works. I don’t even know what working would mean in that context. All I know is: it’s not mine anymore.

And maybe that’s not a flaw. But it does mean the real version of what I wrote, the complete thing, exists somewhere I’ll never be.