The joke that stuck for days

Five words, tossed across a table with a laugh so they wouldn't land too hard. "You were more fun before." You laughed along. Days later, they're still following you around. Because a piece of it rings true. You were louder back then. You went out with everybody. You stayed till one. Now you leave at eleven, and you've started to wonder.

Hear what they meant, because they said it badly. They don't miss the habit. They miss you. The talks out back with your collar up against the cold. The ridiculous conversations that only happened because you were both standing in the same spot with nothing else to do. That's a complaint about access, and access is easy to give back.

And there's more of you to give now. The cigarette kept pulling you out of your own night on a schedule, then sending you back half there. That timer's gone. You may be quieter for a stretch while sleep and mood settle. That's a season, not a personality. God didn't hand you a smaller life. He handed you the whole night.

Next time, stay the extra hour on purpose. Be there for the ridiculous conversation at the end of the night, all of you, with no countdown running. That's the version of you they were missing. The fun was always you, and now it stays all night.