I’d blink a few times, slow — like I’m clearing fog from a windshield.

I’d look around the room, searching for something out of place.

My brain would sprint ahead — six months, a year, ten years — while my body stayed frozen in the kitchen.

Then I’d grab a pillow, bury my face in it, and scream until I sounded twelve years old again.

It’s a necessary explosion. Because sometimes good news feels fragile — like it might disappear if you say it out loud too soon.

I’d start the internal roll call.

“Are you seeing this?”

“Is this actually for us?”

Then the flutter would come — that nervous, sacred ache in the stomach — the one that shows up when you realize everything is about to change and you aren’t sure you’re tall enough for “forever.”

I’d walk into the bathroom and study the mirror.

“Do I look different?” I’d ask.

The mirror would shrug. Same freckles. Same hair doing whatever it wants. Same wrinkles.

But my eyes?

Glowing — like they swallowed a secret.

Then I’d look up at the ceiling.

“God? Hi. Just checking… You meant me, right?”

And He would answer:

You are Mine.

And suddenly my heart would feel healed. Free.

Because I’ve learned something about forever. Sometimes it arrives with fireworks. Sometimes it arrives quietly.

The room won’t change. The furniture will stay exactly where it is.

But I will.

The rest of the world will find out later — when they finally notice I’ve stopped looking for the exit.

The rest is HisStory.

And I thank my Author