The Condensation on the Windscreen

Dear Delyara, The clock on the dashboard reads 1:45 AM, and the windows of the car have completely steamed up, sealing me inside a tiny, damp world of my own. Outside, the rain is coming down in sheets, blurring the orange glow of the streetlamps into soft, bleeding pools of light. I should go inside, but I can’t bring myself to open the car door and face the empty flat. There is a strange comfort in this small, fogged-up box. Out here, the expectations of the world can’t touch me. For the next twenty minutes, I don’t have to be the provider, the entrepreneur, or the resilient professional. I can just sit in the dark, let my shoulders drop, and admit to the steering wheel that I am completely overwhelmed by the sheer scale of the future I’m trying to build.