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NOT TOO LATE

When the night grows longer, the heart grows longer too, and the voice that used to say “I’m okay” keeps getting smaller. People who pause to catch their breath so no one will notice— Tonight, I’ll sing your story. In a school-uniform pocket, homework weighs more than dreams. The sky outside the window is clear, so why is my future so blurred? “Work hard and you’ll be fine,” they say— so easy on grown-up tongues. But on the road I’m walking, there isn’t a single sign. After cram school, half-asleep on the bus, only my phone light sways, like it can shine on tomorrow. Between the numbers on my report, my name feels like it’s shrinking. At home— “Why can’t you do more than this?” Words that roll in under the name of love push through the crack of my door. I nod and say “Okay,” but inside I swallow the sound of me falling apart. Even among friends I keep drifting to the back. The laughter in the group chat arrives late only on my screen. A glance in the hallway drops to the floor in a second. When did I become this quiet? Still… I don’t want to disappear. I just wish someone would say, once— “You’re here.” That one sentence might be enough to hold me up today. Loneliness doesn’t come with a loud sound— it quietly turns off the fire in your heart, and behind a smiling face that says “I’m fine,” it makes you stand alone in the rain. But listen—today’s you, you’re not late. The world is simply too fast. Don’t let go— With this song, I’ll call your name. Morning alarms shout like a bugle call. One cup of coffee barely stands my face upright. Pressed into subway doors, wedged between familiar strangers, I practice “Hello” like a daily drill. At work, “You’re okay, right?” flies in like a greeting. And I learn how to answer “I’m okay” even when I’m not. The work never ends, and knowing it never ends makes me even more tired. In meeting rooms, words overflow— but my heart can’t say even one. On the way home, everything on my shoulders collapses at my front door. Why does “Good job today” feel so expensive? Payday is one square on the calendar, but reality charges me every day. The number in my account makes me smile for a moment— and the next day the card bill grabs my sigh again. The money I spend on myself turns into guilt. To someone, I’m always “dependable.” To someone, I’m always “the one who endures.” But I want to hide behind someone’s shoulder just for a while. Loneliness doesn’t come with a loud sound— it quietly turns off the fire in your heart, and behind a smiling face that says “I’m fine,” it makes you stand alone in the rain. But listen—today’s you, you’re not late. The world is simply too fast. Don’t let go— With this song, I’ll call your name. In front of my family I promised myself a hundred times I must not shake. A child’s spoon against a bowl, a partner’s sigh, rent and academy fees, even the empty space in the fridge— it all sounds like my responsibility. “You have it the hardest,” they say— sometimes it comforts me, but sometimes it makes me lonelier, because I don’t want to be “strong” today. Sometimes I just want to be held. When I say “Dad’s okay,” the kids relax. My partner keeps the day rolling. But when was I truly okay? Only right before sleep do I finally meet myself— quietly breaking in a room with no mirrors. The weight of being the head of a home hardens not from praise, but from habit. No one taught me that even hardness can crack. From morning to night the house clock turns by my hands— Diapers, baby food, pickups, homework checks. A child’s crying sounds like my name being called. “Mom” is warm, but where did my own name go? In the mirror I wear exhaustion instead of makeup, and pull out “I’m okay” again. Childcare is love, education is duty, side work is survival— but when the day ends I want to set it all down and just be a person. Why is “Please look at me” so hard to say? While I protect my family, I keep pushing myself further back. In a student’s night, the future is cloudy. In a worker’s night, tomorrow is heavy. In a provider’s night, responsibility steals sleep. In a spouse’s night, the self grows faint. In an elder’s night, the world moves too fast. When I was young I didn’t know time could carry people so far away. Friends’ names remain in memory, but phone numbers don’t come easily anymore. Hospital waiting slips, pill packets, pension dates, tiny letters on calendars— the world keeps reducing its buttons, and I keep losing the way. Among young faces on the street I become transparent. “Sir/Ma’am, this way,” is kind— and yet a little sad. The moment help becomes expected can feel embarrassing. But I, too, was once someone’s youth, someone’s tomorrow, someone who protected others. So just once— I wish someone would listen to my story too. AI Generated