Sometime -

The block wasn't a lack of ideas—it was the weight of potential. As long as the work remained unwritten, it was perfect. To begin was to risk being mediocre.

The first word was clunky. The second was worse. But by the time the sun dipped below the horizon, the paper was no longer white. It was messy, flawed, and absolutely real. Arthur leaned back, his neck aching and his fingers stained with ink, and finally understood: "Sometime" had arrived, and it looked exactly like "now." sometime

He didn't wait for a grand opening line. He didn't wait for the coffee to cool. He simply began. The block wasn't a lack of ideas—it was