I wrote a play. And I’m scared to touch it now. Each note feels fragile, like a Jenga piece teetering the structure toward disaster.

But I wrote it. It exists. Even if it’s bad. It means I can commit to something. For longer than an evening.

And I love it enough to step back into it, feel its edges. Memorize its beats. I love it enough to ask questions. Diverge from the original path. I love it enough to destroy it. Make a mess of it.

It is a precious thing. Sacred even.

I wish you could read it. Tell me it’s pretentious. Or perfect. Or overindulgent. Or too poetic. Or…something.

I miss your honesty. Even when I hated it.

What a wonder, the longing still seeping into my prose. To impress you. To disappoint you. Because at least you thought of me.

I bet you’ll hate the play.

But the question is: for what reason?

And I’m content without the answer. Because I wrote it. And that’s enough. It has to be enough.