I Thought I Had Time

I thought I had time.

That’s the sentence that plays back in my head now, quieter than regret but heavier than memory. It didn’t sound like a mistake when I first believed it. It sounded reasonable. Comfortable. Almost responsible.

I thought I had time to reply later.

Time to visit when things slowed down.

Time to say the important things once I found the right words.

Time, I assumed, was patient.

Life encourages that belief. It tells you tomorrow is generous. It tells you people will wait. It tells you unfinished conversations can always be continued, like books left face-down on a nightstand.

So I postponed.

I postponed phone calls because I was tired.

Postponed honesty because it felt complicated.

Postponed presence because I thought consistency could be replaced with intention.

I thought caring quietly still counted.

There were signs, of course. There always are. Subtle changes in tone. Longer gaps between messages. Invitations that stopped coming because I’d declined too many times before. I noticed them the way you notice the weather—aware, but unconcerned.

I thought I had time.

Time turned out to be less forgiving than I expected.

It wasn’t a dramatic ending. No grand goodbye. No last conversation that tied everything neatly together. Just a moment where I realized something had ended without asking my permission. A relationship. A version of someone. A version of me.

It’s strange how absence announces itself. Not loudly, but through routine. A name you stop typing. A place you stop going. A habit that disappears so slowly you don’t realize it’s gone until you reach for it.

I reached for it too late.

I replayed moments I once dismissed as ordinary. A message I skimmed instead of reading carefully. A visit I shortened because I had “things to do.” A question I didn’t ask because I was afraid of the answer.

I thought urgency was optional.

I thought effort could be delayed.

I thought time was something I owned.

What no one tells you is that time doesn’t move evenly. It rushes past what you neglect and slows down around what you fear. It stretches painfully when you want to go back and snaps forward when you ask for one more chance.

We don’t lose people all at once. We lose them in inches. In postponed plans. In half-listened conversations. In love expressed too late to be useful.

And the cruelest part is that nothing felt wrong while it was happening.

I was busy. I was tired. I was managing life. Aren’t we all?

That’s what makes “I thought I had time” such a dangerous thought. It sounds harmless. Sensible, even. Until one day, you realize time wasn’t waiting—it was counting.

Now I notice the moments I used to overlook. The pauses before someone speaks. The effort it takes to reach out. The quiet ways people ask to be chosen.

I answer sooner.

I show up messier.

I say things before they’re perfect.

Not because I’ve mastered time—but because I no longer trust it.

I still don’t know how much of it I have. None of us do. But I’ve learned this: the things that matter most rarely announce their deadlines. They just expire.

And the only thing worse than running out of time

is realizing you never used the time you had.

I thought I had time.

Now I know better.