You can't borrow time. I know because I tried.
I'll sleep later. I'll rest later. I'll be present later. Later, later, later — like time was a credit card with no statement date.
The statement came.
It arrived as a numb feeling where enthusiasm used to be. As a relationship where I was technically present and functionally absent. As a kid who learned to say "it's fine, Dad" in a way that meant it absolutely was not fine.
The interest rate on unlived time is brutal. It doesn't compound in hours. It compounds in distance. In missed context. In inside jokes you weren't there for. In the slow, invisible drift between you and the people who stopped expecting you to show up.
Nobody sends you a statement. There's no alert when the balance tips from recoverable to gone. You just wake up one day and realize the kid doesn't tell you things anymore, or the friend stopped calling, or the body you deferred maintenance on just filed its own claim.
Time is the only currency you spend every day whether you mean to or not. You can't save it. You can't earn more.
Choose badly long enough, and it chooses for you.
