Maturity’s not a finish line

Late afternoon at a quiet bar by the marina. The sun’s dropping low—everything’s gold. Two old friends, Jack and Leo, sit at a small table outside. The remains of their fish tacos and a couple of half-empty beers mark the rhythm of the conversation. A few sailboats clink in their slips nearby. The air smells of salt, diesel, and time passing.

Jack: You ever notice how everyone talks about “finding themselves” like it’s some lost keychain?

Leo: (chuckles) Yeah. I tried finding myself once. Turned out I was just hiding in plain sight. Behind a pile of excuses.

Jack: (leans back) I used to think maturity meant not caring what people think. Now I think it’s knowing when to care and when not to.

Leo: That’s balance talking. You didn’t used to do balance. You did extremes.

Jack: Still do, sometimes. Just slower.

Leo: (nods) Maturity’s not a finish line, huh? More like realizing there never was a race.

Jack: Or realizing you were the only runner, and the track was your own backyard.

Leo: (smiles) And sometimes it’s okay to sit on the porch instead of running laps.

Jack: Depends who’s bringing the beer.

Leo: I brought it this time. Next round’s yours, philosopher.

Jack: Deal. But next time, we’ll skip the wisdom and just sail.

Leo: That’s the wisest thing you’ve said all day.

They watch the horizon without speaking, the silence between them easy and earned. The wind shifts—just enough to remind them they’re still moving, even when sitting still.

WE&P by: EZorrillaMc.