You live because the story isn’t finished yet. Not yours. Not the ones you’re tied to. Even when it feels like fragments—like separate, unconnected scenes—there’s still a larger narrative forming. And you don’t get to see what it becomes if you step out too early.

You live because people matter—even the ones you haven’t met yet. The future holds conversations, chance encounters, a person who will understand something about you in a way no one has before. You are, whether you feel it or not, part of someone else’s turning point.

You live because meaning isn’t something you find once—it’s something you build, piece by piece. In showing up. In small acts. In choosing, again and again, to stay when leaving would be easier.

You live because even pain has texture, and texture means you’re still here. And being here—really here—means there is still the possibility of change. Not guaranteed. But possible. And possibility is everything.

You live because there are moments—quiet, almost forgettable ones—that end up carrying disproportionate weight. A meal. A laugh. A line of writing that lands. A morning where things feel 5% lighter. Those moments don’t announce themselves ahead of time.

And if he were being especially honest, he might say this:

You live not because every day justifies itself—but because over time, enough of them do.

And that’s enough to keep going.