Today, I had a conversation with Time. Yes, with Time itself. It’s not a metaphor—or maybe it is? Sometimes, in those quiet moments that feel like a scream, I find myself talking to… well, myself. Asking questions I’ve been too afraid to answer until now. But today was different. Today, I spoke to Time, and it spoke back.

I asked it, plainly and without hesitation: “Why are you passing so quickly?”
I thought it might stay silent, fading into the monotonous ticking of the clock on my wall. But no, it answered. Its voice wasn’t like anything I’d ever heard before—calm, almost gentle, yet carrying a weight of wisdom so ancient it made me shiver.

«I came into your life to teach you,» Time said. «At first, I was patient. I watched you laugh with your whole being, without even noticing me. It was beautiful. I let you be happy, carefree. Then, I showed you the world, taught you how to appreciate me. Do you remember the first time you realized you could lose me? You cried then, but you never forgot.”

I closed my eyes, trying to recall those memories. Yes, I’d always thought Time was infinite when I was a child, but the first time I felt it slip away was like a wound. The first loss, the first goodbye, the first sleepless night. And yet, after every lesson Time gave me, I treated it carelessly again, like an old friend I only visited when I needed something.

Time kept speaking, like a teacher rushing to finish a lesson before the bell rings:
«I was glad when you shared me with others—with the people you loved. That was good, right, natural. But you forgot something important: to save some of me for yourself. Because in the end, it’s you who loses me. When you gave pieces of me to your children, that was beautiful—you learned what it meant to give, to sacrifice. But even then, I quietly asked you: keep a little for yourself.”

There was something in its words that hit me straight in the chest. Work. Exhaustion. Responsibilities. How much of my time have I broken into tiny pieces, scattering them to build something I thought mattered? But did it? A bigger house, a nicer car, a higher title—yes, I got them, but at what cost?

«You shared me with material things,» Time continued, «and later, with other people’s work. And once again, you forgot yourself. I called out to you, but you didn’t hear me. I was still young then, but I saw you aging. I saw you losing that carefree laugh. I saw you running, always running, thinking you could somehow catch me again. But you know, I only move forward. Every moment you lose is gone forever.”

I opened my eyes and looked around. The room was the same, the silence unchanged, but something inside me had shifted. Something simple, yet profound. I didn’t even know how much time had passed during this “conversation,” but it didn’t matter anymore. I remembered all the times I’d promised myself: “Later, I’ll stop. Later, I’ll take time for myself.”And I realized just how many times I’d lied.

«I’m tired now,» Time said before it left. «But I’m still here, for a little while. Keep me. Not for others, not for things, but for yourself. Find moments to laugh the way you used to. To love not out of obligation, but out of joy. To live not because you have to, but because you want to.”

Its words lingered in the air, but I knew it wouldn’t stay much longer. Time doesn’t wait. And maybe it’s not supposed to. We’re the ones who need to stop counting it in hours and start measuring it in moments. To stop consuming it and start living it.

Today, I had a conversation with Time. And maybe, for the first time, I truly listened.