She thought there'd be sufficient time if she hid her watch. That was the first line. She stared at it, blinking at the screen. Below it, the rest of the document waited—blank, expectant. This wasn’t what she had opened the file to write. She scrolled. There was more now. You will try to make it meaningful. You will think you have time to do it right. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard. Slowly, she typed: What is this? The cursor blinked. Then— You already know how it ends. Her chest tightened. This wasn’t funny. It wasn’t clever. It was— She deleted the line. Tried to close the document. It didn’t close. More text appeared. You will hesitate. You always do. Her pulse quickened. She reached for her watch—then remembered she had taken it off hours ago. Hidden it, like that would stop the pressure building in the room. If you keep reading, it will finish itself. She swallowed. Scrolled further down. There it was. The final line, already written. She didn’t want to read it. Did anyway. It wasn’t forgiveness she felt, but it was close enough to keep going. The cursor blinked beneath it. Waiting for her to add something. Or to accept that she already had. She leaned back slowly, hands still, breath uneven. Maybe it didn’t matter whether she had written it. Maybe the point was that it fit. It wasn’t forgiveness she felt, but it was close enough to keep going.