I stand before the full-length mirror, its silver frame catching the pale morning light that spills through the tall windows like liquid gold. The room behind me is still, hushed, wrapped in the quiet aftermath of sleep. My fingers move with practiced precision, adjusting the knot of my tie until it sits perfectly against my collar—a small anchor of composure in a body that feels strangely untethered.
Last night, I slept peacefully, and yet the exhaustion clings to me like a second skin—dull, persistent, pressing at the edges of my bones.
I don't feel rested. I don't feel ready.
But the conference waits for no one. And the crowd—the endless, suffocating press of minds, the noise that never truly stops—will not spare me simply because I'm tired. They will come anyway, their thoughts spilling into me like water through a cracked dam.
