Most days, I walk into work buttoned-up, confident, the go-to guy for solutions. But underneath? My chest gets tight when I think about the stories I haven’t written. There’s a whisper that says, You’re running out of time, man. And then there’s another voice reminding me that the best words are probably the ones that come after you’ve lived a little, failed a little, and learned how to sit with silence. Funny thing is, people at the office see the crisp suit, the easy smile. They don’t see the notebook I keep tucked in my bag. They don’t know that on my lunch break, I sometimes pull it out, scribble half a sentence, then slam it shut because the weight of finishing feels heavier than starting. If interiority is about letting readers in on what no one else can see, then maybe I owe it to myself to write from that place—the place where my hands shake with possibility, and my excuses sound smaller than my dreams.