The decision that rerouted the next two years of my life was made in about forty seconds on a Wednesday afternoon. The book that I'd describe as genuinely formative was one I almost didn't finish because the first chapter bored me.

We're very invested in the idea that important things should feel important in real time. That we'll know. That there will be some kind of signal — weight, or atmosphere, or at least a decent soundtrack. But mostly there isn't. Mostly it's just a regular afternoon and then quietly something is different.

I find this both humbling and, in an odd way, comforting. It means the important thing might already be happening. The conversation you're half-paying attention to. The place you almost didn't go. The person you came very close to not meeting.

Or it means nothing and I've been staring out this window for too long and should make dinner.

Fifty-fifty, honestly.