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We sketched our futures in margins and coffee stains,

Holding onto lines that quickly fade with the rain.

Guesswork in the backseat, plans with cracks in the frame,

All the colors slipping, but the picture stays the same.

You said, “Maybe roads don’t have to be straight,”

So we made our own way, out of chance and mistakes.

Our laughter filled the silence,

Though the calm felt fake—

Building dreams on fragile ground we couldn’t shake.

Does it matter if no one’s watching?

Does it matter if no finish line’s coming?

We’re writing stories with uncertain hands,

Chasing meaning in unmarked lands.

Rerouting every message that got lost in the noise,

Learning that progress takes more than just toys.

Empty bottles, late nights,

Still, we find light—

Catching moments before they take flight.

You said, “We don’t owe anyone surrender,”

So we patch the cracks and climb a little higher.

No scripts, just real—

And a promise to feel,

Every break until the pain inspires.

Does it matter if no one’s watching?

Does it matter if no finish line’s coming?

We’re writing stories with uncertain hands,

Chasing meaning in unmarked lands.