What do you lose when you stop waiting for the end?

I was walking through the hospital corridor this morning—still half-asleep, coffee in hand—and I passed a family sitting on a bench. The daughter was holding her father’s hand, both of them staring at the floor. No one spoke. I thought: they’re not waiting for news. They’re waiting for the moment to pass. And then it hit me: we spend so much time measuring the weight of what comes after, but what happens when you stop counting? What do you actually keep?