The glass is old, the road is dark, I keep one hand on what I left behind. I learned to fix the things that break too loud, but not the ones that rust without a sound. There's a dent I never hammered out, not because I couldn't— because I wanted proof that I had fallen. So I let it stay, like a scar that knows my name. The man at the roadside said, "You can't drive forward looking back." But no one told me that the past has hands, and they were holding both my shoulders. I've been staring at the rearview long enough to know the shape of every ghost behind me. But the road ahead still waits, and I am not as lost as I believe. I saw some children dive into the river, fall, laugh, and climb again. They didn't count the cost of letting go, they just jumped because the jump was enough. I forgot when I stopped doing that— when I started measuring the fall before I ever moved. The rearview shows what's gone, not what's coming. But if I keep my eyes there, I'll never see the river down the road. I've been staring at the rearview long enough to know the shape of every ghost behind me. But the road ahead still waits, and I am not as lost as I believe. I will lift my eyes. I will let the river call me by my name. Let the past be a mirror, not a seat I sit in all my life. The glass is still there... But I am looking forward now.
