The universe.

3:39

She always sits in the same seat — second from the end, where you can see the door without looking like you’re waiting for someone.

She orders a Negroni immediately. The decision is clear. There’s a small exhale right after, almost unnoticeable, but it’s there. Not from the drink, from the choosing. From committing to something without second-guessing. For ninety seconds, she’s a person who knows what she wants.

I’ve known her for a few years now.

She keeps coming back, talking about change.

New plans. New versions of her life. Things she wants to start. Things she wants to leave.

The ideas evolve, the timing never does. It’s the only time that happens to her. Everywhere else in her life, she lives in maybe. Maybe later, maybe when I’m ready, maybe when things calm down.

Procrastination is usually a delay, and it’s also self-protection. If you never start, you never fail. If you never choose, you never regret.

We spend so much time imagining what could go wrong. Rarely what could go right. Nobody delays the worst-case scenario in their mind.

We replay it, analyze it, prepare for it — a perfect collaboration between the brain and anxiety. As if the universe is waiting to make a mistake.

“I like the confidence you have when you order,” I told her.

She smiled, the soft smile, the one that doesn’t fully believe the compliment.

“I wish I could feel like this about other things,” she said.

“Like what?” I asked.

“My life.”

She laughed right after — accidentally telling the truth.

She took a good sip, and i saw the small shift.

Presence.

We all think confidence comes from control, from knowing. From certainty. But sometimes confidence comes from something else. From letting go.

“So how do you start?” she asks.

“Start what?”

“Choosing… without the noise.”

“I have no idea,” I said.

“But I think we all start when we realize we don’t actually have to carry everything alone.”

“That sounds nice,” she says quietly.

“It’s not about knowing what will happen,” I tell her.

“It’s trusting that whatever happens, you’ll meet it.”

She nods slowly, finishing the last sip of her Negroni.

“Do you think I’ll figure it out?” she asks.

“You already are,” I say.

“You’re just holding on too tight.”

She was waiting for a sign — like all of us.

But the sign is usually just a small moment, where we stop negotiating with fear and let ourselves move. Not because we’re certain. Because we finally trust the universe a little more than our worries.

I made another Negroni and set it down.

“I didn’t order that,” she said.

I smiled.

“You didn’t,” I said.

“The universe did.”