I don’t want to meet death politely.
I don’t want to arrive early, neat, or unscathed.
I want to stumble in late, breathless, laughing, and carrying stories that spill out of my pockets.

I have lived like someone afraid of using up her life. I rationed joy. I delayed celebration. I told myself I’d rest later, love later, and maybe live later. Maybe somewhere after the degree, after the stability, after the healing, or after I became a more acceptable version of myself.

Maybe when healing did not feel so enormous or when I could make more certain decisions. Maybe later, when I did not have to worry about saving up for a gloomy future and everyday did not feel like the fight for my life.

But later kept moving.

There were years I survived instead of lived. Years where dissociation kept me functioning but distant. Where I did the most impressive and wonderful things while feeling absent from my own body. Where love felt like a risk I couldn’t afford and pleasure felt undeserved.

That version of me would have arrived at death early; efficient, responsible, and emotionally sober. The smile would not have reached her eyes and no excitement would lace her voice.

An icon, truly and she remains another version of the blueprint.

But I did not and don’t want that anymore.

I want to arrive late because I stayed too long at dinners that mattered. Because I chased conversations past midnight among my fellow villagers. Because I lingered in moments instead of rushing through them to be “productive.”

I want to arrive in love. All kinds and faces of love. Not just romantic love, but the kind that leaks into everything. Love for my work, my friends, my body, my softness, and my contradictions. Love that makes me brave enough to be seen even when I am not fully healed, which at this point, I doubt I ever will be.

And yes, a little drunk, yes on alcohol, but also on life. On risk. On pleasure. On saying yes when fear suggested no. On dancing when I should’ve been “composed.” On choosing joy without first earning it. Happiness is not a wage you earn for suffering well, nor a prize for being good long enough. It doesn’t require proof, progress, or permission. It is not deserved or undeserved.

It simply is.

And the moment I stopped trying to qualify for it, I realized I had been allowed to feel it all along.

This is a quiet rebellion against a world that tells women to be careful, contained, and grateful for less.

It’s a refusal to shrink my life into something tidy and palatable.

So when the time comes, I don’t want death to find me waiting.

I want it to find me mid-laugh, mid-love, mid-story. I promise, I will be running late because I stayed too long where my heart felt full.

And if I smell faintly of wine, joy, and a life well-lived?

Even better.

“You’re late,” death will say to me in his black coat. He will find me flipping through the pages of a Cecilia Ahern novel, smiling at a world that only exists in words.

“The party ended a little late,” I smile at his weary face. “I got distracted.”

“With what?” Death asks, already smiling, like she knew the answer.

“Living,” I say. “It took longer than I thought.”

Death sits across from me. Not cruel. Not urgent. Just patient in the way only something inevitable can be.

“I’ve been waiting,” she say.

I can only laugh. I knew she would come, not the when but her arrival was written in stone. Time never confused us; it only delayed the meeting. We both share a knowing look. We have met before in all the people that went on, and on the days I felt I wouldn’t make it to see the next sunrise.

“I know.”

Death glances at my glass. “You smell like wine.”

“I smell like joy,” I correct. “Like risk. Like staying too long and leaving too late.”

Death laughs. It is a soft sound, and almost fond.

“You know,” she say, “some people arrive early. Very prepared. Very empty.”

“I didn’t want that,” I tell them. “I didn’t want a clean exit. I wanted fingerprints on my life. I wanted proof I was here.”

Death stands, offering a hand. “Are you ready now?”

I look around once more. The mess. The warmth. The love I let in even when it could hurt me.

“Yes,” I say. “But only because I lived.”

As we walk away, Death leans in and whispers, “You did well.”

-With love forever

The girl that dreams in colours yet to be discovered.

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