Every Day of the Week

Monday is the day the world clears its throat and says: again. Tuesday is Monday without the excuse. At least Monday had a reason to be terrible. Wednesday is the middle child— forgotten, reliable, quietly holding the week together while everyone argues about the weekend. Thursday is Friday's understudy— always almost, never quite, close enough to taste the freedom but too far to touch it. Friday is a door that opens into two days of being whoever you actually are instead of whoever they pay you to be. Saturday morning is the closest most adults will ever get to childhood— no alarm, no agenda, just the body waking up when it's ready and the light coming in like a suggestion, not a demand. Sunday evening is the smallest grief— the one we practice once a week so the big ones don't kill us. Seven days. Seven moods. One life spent repeating them and hoping this week will be the different one.