one thing about me is, i'll always cry.

when i'm sad. when i'm pissed and frustrated. when i'm hungry. when i'm hurt. when i hurt the people i love. when i see young people die. when i read a sad piece. when i watch romance movies or sad movies.

literally, everything makes me cry.

but why i consider this day…the day i cried the most is because i dedicated hours, and hours, and hours, to grieving nonstop about my dad.

i was in primary school then.

i had just returned from school, and i didn't meet anyone at home. neither my brother nor my mom.

i just came back, pulled off my uniform, and was left in just my singlet and shorts.

that was when the crying festival started.

although my memory is blurry about what really triggered it, i know i cried for a long time.

my neighbour's eldest daughter eventually had to call me out of our room and take me to theirs.

afterwards, i fell ill.

i can faintly remember when she asked me why i cried so much.

i told her, “i miss and want my daddy.”

up till this day, i can't really remember what triggered that moment.

and maybe that's the thing.

maybe i had carried so much hurt from the moment my dad passed. maybe i never really got the chance to grieve. maybe i just kept living, kept growing, kept going, while all that grief stayed somewhere inside me.

and then, one day, it busted out.

that's why i highlighted this in my notes:

“one day i'll sit and scream and cry all the cry and scream i've been storing inside.”

i know myself.

when that day finally comes, it's gonna be…i don't even know, mann.

grief changes you.

it doesn't necessarily get better with time. you just become better at living with the reality of it.

my heart goes out to the children in somalia, palestine, sudan, ukraine, and every other place where children are growing up surrounded by war, violence, displacement, and loss.

children who are learning what grief feels like before they are even old enough to understand what it means.

children who are losing parents, siblings, homes, childhoods.

sometimes i think about that little girl who came home from school, took off her uniform, and cried for hours because she missed her daddy.

and then i think about all the children around the world who are missing theirs too.

i don't know what grief does to a child.

i just know it stays.

and i hope, somehow, they get to grow up without having to carry it alone.

I personally feel the effects of heartbreak aren't emphasized enough. They're often dismissed, minimized, or treated as though they're something people should simply "get over."

I can still remember my experience vividly.

It started with the constant tightness in my chest. Sometimes it became so overwhelming that I'd instinctively beat my chest, hoping it would ease the pressure. Then came the shortness of breath and the complete loss of appetite.

Gradually, I began withdrawing from almost everything. I lost interest in life and in the things that once brought me joy or gave me hope.

Then there were the midnight crying sessions, the pounding migraines, and the emotional exhaustion that never seemed to end.

Every song, every place, every scent, every little thing somehow found a way to remind me of them.

You find yourself sitting in silence, staring into nothing, quietly watching pieces of yourself disappear.

At one point, I was genuinely terrified that I was losing my mind (literally).

My appetite became so poor that I was constantly weak, dizzy, and frail. My body could barely sustain itself because I hardly ate, yet it still had to cope with the demands of my monthly menstrual cycle.

Then came the loss of confidence and trust issues.

The endless overthinking.

You begin questioning everything. You question people. You question your memories. Eventually, you even begin questioning yourself, wondering if you're the problem or if you're simply losing your grip on reality.

People rarely talk about what heartbreak is actually capable of doing to a person.

I still remember the nights I cried until I had nothing left, begging God to either take me or heal me from the same person I had once asked Him to teach me how to love [sighs].

I remember praying,

"Dear God, If You bring me out of this dark place, I promise I won't return here again."

It was that serious.

I'd exhausted every way I knew how to cope before I finally surrendered and admitted I couldn't carry it anymore.

What I still don't know is how I made it here.

Maybe I healed or maybe I just simply learnt how to live alongside the grief.

Because I don't think it completely disappears. (Grief doesn't.)

It just becomes quieter.

It settles into the background of your life, waiting for the wrong memory, the wrong song, the wrong place, or the wrong moment to remind you it still exists.

Even now, I still experience the aftermath.

Some nights I suddenly jerk awake from sleep.

The closest description I have is that it feels like my head had been held underwater and I'm desperately gasping for air. Then I wake completely, realize where I am, realize I'm safe and not with anyone, and slowly breathe again.

It's difficult to explain, but it's real asf.

Heartbreak isn't "just emotional."

People have been hospitalized with stress-induced cardiomyopathy, commonly known as Broken Heart Syndrome.

Oh yes, emotional trauma can have genuine physical effects on the body.

So whenever I see people mocking those who are heartbroken, dismissing their pain, or insisting they're exaggerating,

I can't help but think you've either never experienced it, or you've forgotten what it can truly do to someone.

Maybe I just needed to write this down not to dwell on my experience,

But to remember my WHY.

Hope has ever been a curious thing.

A fragile flame, perhaps. Yet kingdoms have been built upon less.

I have often found it amusing how readily people dismiss the dreams of another. They hear a man speak of the thing that stirs his blood and quickens his spirit, and before long they are measuring its odds, weighing its practicality, and calculating its chances of success.

What a strange habit.

For how can one judge the worth of a thing without first knowing the soul that carries it?

You do not know whether that dream is merely a passing fancy or the very thread holding a life together.

You do not know whether it is the first thought upon waking, the last companion before sleep, or the quiet lantern that lights the road ahead.

This thing gives my life meaning, and I care little whether others understand it.

Perhaps the world deems my dream unrealistic. Perhaps it never comes to pass. Yet in pursuing it, I find myself more alive than I would ever be without it.

For this thing gives structure to my existence. It beckons me toward tomorrow.

And therein lies a truth I have come to respect:

Not having anything to look forward to is a peculiar sort of emptiness.

A man may endure hardship. He may endure failure. He may endure seasons of uncertainty.

But a life stripped of hope is a desolate country.

Life grows dangerous when people lose hope, purpose, passion, or direction.

I learned this lesson many years ago through a friend.

At the time, I thought him excessive.

He spoke endlessly of his college matriculation. He savored the title of “college student” as though it were a crown newly placed upon his head.

Youth often mistakes sincerity for foolishness.

So I asked him, rather carelessly, why he made such a spectacle of it.

He looked at me and replied,

“I am the first in my family to attend college.”

Nothing more but rather, a simple truth.

And somehow, that truth carried the weight of generations.

In that moment, the room seemed quieter.

For I realized that I had been judging a story of which I had read only a single page.

What appeared to me as excitement was, to him, triumph.

What looked ordinary through my eyes was extraordinary through his.

Since then, I have regarded people differently.

Life, I discovered, is not a single narrative but a thousand overlapping ones. The same event may be a footnote in one man’s story and the defining chapter in another’s.

We are forever standing at different windows, gazing upon the same landscape and believing we have seen the whole of it.

We rarely have.

And so I have learned to be gentler with the joys of others.

The thing that seems small to you may be sacred to them.

The dream you dismiss may be the very reason they rise each morning.

The hope you call delusion may be the force keeping despair at bay.

Who among us is wise enough to measure the worth of another man’s reasons for carrying on?

As for me, I have grown suspicious of those who mock hope.

For hope, in all its stubbornness and folly, has kept many souls alive long after reason suggested they should surrender.

And if that is not a noble thing, I know not what is.

“I like him.”

Gracious Lord.

I whispered it out of extreme shock. Utter disgust. Reproach for the walls I thought I built so carefully around myself.

Wait, what?

I like him.

The realization struck me again as I listened to Constellation by Jade LeMac, and suddenly everything felt louder. The music, my heartbeat, my own thoughts mocking me.

Shit.

Shit, shit, shit.

I’m fucked.

Exactly... That was me whispering to myself out of frustration. Out of too much yearning. Too much wanting that has nowhere to go.

Where do all this yearning go?

Just where?

“I like him.”

Even writing it feels humiliating.

A girl who has built so many walls, convinced herself that nothing could pull her under again, will understand exactly how deeply ruined I feel right now.

And what’s even worse...

I like that one dude who is so painfully out of the kind of person I ever thought I’d let myself want.

Like how do I explain that?

That I like him.

No.

That I like who he is.

Or maybe what’s even more terrifying is admitting that I like all the parts of him I probably shouldn’t.

And now I’m spiraling, asking myself something I hate even thinking.

Do women actually fall more in love with toxicity in real life than we publicly speak against on social media?

Because surely.

Surely.

That must explain whatever this is.

Because I know exactly the kind of person he is.

Or at least, I think I do.

And somehow that makes me want him more.

Why.

Just why.

What have I done to myself?

He’s this Christian Grey kind of dude.

And suddenly I understand Anastasia.

I understand how she looked at Christian despite all his grey areas and somehow fell deeper instead of running.

I used to think, girl, stand up.

Now look at me.

Sitting here.

Unable to stand at all.

I knew I was ruined because not only is he that person, but I know myself.

I know how vulnerable I become when I begin liking someone.

How embarrassingly soft I get.

How quickly all my careful walls begin to crack.

And someone like that?

Oh no.

And the worst part?

I think I’d let him.

Gladly.

That is the truly disturbing part of all this.

Not him.

Me.

My willingness.

My curiosity.

My quiet desire to be completely undone by someone who probably does not even care enough to notice my unraveling.

The plan was to fix your life. Build your life, work on your mental health, focus on yourself, and probably become whole.

What have you done, Elyssa?

Again, I whispered to myself.

Fuck.

I’m doomed.

And not even in a dramatic way.

In the quiet pathetic way.

The kind where a boy who probably does not give a fuck about you somehow finds a permanent seat in your thoughts.

The kind where you know he is not the kind of person a girl like you should ever want... a girl who would rather sit under the stars and count pebbles, and somehow that makes the wanting feel even more obscene.

More impossible.

More delicious.

More painful.

And no,

That wanting.

That obscure, aching want.

It sits in my chest like something alive.

Into every quiet moment where my mind has nothing else to cling to except...

It feels heavy.

It feels beautiful.

It feels embarrassing.

It feels like standing too close to fire and realizing you have no intention of stepping back.

Maybe this is what doesn’t kill you... makes you sit awake at 2 a.m. writing your own emotional downfall into a Substack article while your intrusive thoughts laugh beside you.

“Psst. Look at you.”

“Crashing out over a boy.”

“How poetic.”

“How humiliating.”

How deeply, deeply alive.

“Good girl no dey pay again.”

DISCLAIMER: This was supposed to be a quick note but it WOKE up, chose length, and became an article. Please pardon the plot twist.

There is a growing sense that modern conversations are gradually reshaping the meaning of familiar values.

And I keep asking myself…is this growth, or are we just misusing language and calling it evolution?

Take ‘Humility’ for example.

It is common to hear someone say,

“don’t be humble, humble people do not go far, put yourself out there.”

And I just sit with that for a second.

Because…are we really talking about humility here? Or is this just a case of wrong wording?

There is a thin line between confidence and arrogance. Very thin. And most times, what people are actually trying to say is, “do not be timid.”

But somehow, humility gets dragged into it.

And now, in trying to sound bold and progressive, we slowly start painting humility as a limitation instead of what it has always been. Strength.

Then ‘Submission.’

That word alone can disrupt a room.

I see people bash it immediately it is mentioned. And I get it, especially when it is presented one sided. That has happened a lot.

But I will always stand by this: submission was never meant for one gender. I will forever follow the timeless saying:

“Wives, be respectful and submissive to your husbands. Husbands, be respectful and submissive to your wives.”

No one is left out.

The moment it becomes one sided, it stops being truth and starts becoming control. And that is the part I will always kick against.

But outside of that, I keep wondering…what exactly are people reacting to?

Is it the word itself, or the way it has been used over time?

Because those are two different conversations.

Now the ‘Good girl’ narrative.

This one is interesting.

Somehow, being a good girl now sounds like being naive. Like you are not exposed or you're missing out on life.

You will hear things like, “being a good girl does not pay anymore, go out, explore, live life.”

And I genuinely do not understand that logic.

First of all, why does being a normal human being have to “pay” me?

And secondly, since when did exploring life, networking, and putting yourself out there become things that only belong to being “bad”?

These are basic life essentials. Growth, exposure and experience.

But now, in the name of sounding motivational, we attach normal human behavior to identities that do not even align.

And then there is this other shift.

Where being nonchalant, being disrespectful, even being dishonest, is casually normalized.

Almost like people want to identify with these things now.

And that part…I cannot ignore.

I don't DEEPLY have a problem with people choosing their own way of life. That is obviously personal.

What I have a problem with is when those choices come with this need to belittle people who choose differently.

At the end of the day, maybe the issue is not even change.

Maybe it is confusion.

Words are being stretched. Meanings are being bent and in the middle of all that, we are losing clarity.

Not everything needs to be redefined. Some things just need to be understood properly.

You might be wondering how we got here.

Well this is Fatima. She is what the modern world calls "Lazy Ambitious."

You might also be wondering what that is. Well it is probably another tacky name coined by another lazy human trying to intellectualize their chaos.

Gen Z has this very interesting habit of naming everything. Every personality contradiction and every mildly inconvenient life pattern suddenly becomes a phrase.

"Lazy Ambitious."

"Older sister guilt."

"Main character energy."

"Chronically online."

A full personality compressed into two dramatic words.

Quite efficient if you ask Fatima.

But let us return to the scene.

Fatima is sitting at her reading table. A table that exists for one purpose.

'READING.'

Yet Fatima is currently scrolling aimlessly and opening twenty four tabs. She is doing everything except the one activity that the table was built for.

You can say irony lives comfortably in Fatima's house.

Now here is an important detail.

Fatima hates poverty.

Or so she says.

"My biggest fear is failure."

Those are Fatima's exact words.

But where exactly can Fatima's current attitude lead her

We will definitely find out if Fatima decides to record the rest of her life foreverrrrrrrr.

Now Fatima is smiling aimlessly at a cute couple on Pinterest.

“Create New Board.”

That is what pops up on Fatima's screen because she is about to save yet another pin she might never see again.

Fatima clicks it with confidence.

A board titled "Future Life."

A life that currently depends on Fatima actually reading something at the reading table.

But Fatima has moved on.

Fatima heads over to tikky toker app as Tyler Perry's Madea's husband would lovingly pronounce it.

"Ping."

A notification.

Fatima has reposted yet another TikTok that is definitely not necessary to her current situation.

Motivational content of course.

Fatima nods thoughtfully as though wisdom has just been transferred into her bloodstream.

Then Fatima continues scrollingAgain Fatima is seen sending an anonymous message via a NGL App link to a figure she admires deeply because of his work ethic.

"So inspiring."

Another action that could absolutely wait.

But oh well, Fatima would rather do everything else aside read. Then she gently escorts reading into tomorrow.

Tomorrow arrives.

The same circle repeats itself.

Yet Fatima still says she is scared of failure. Interesting.

Let us talk about “Lazy Ambitious.”

Lazy ambitious is a strange psychological contradiction where desire and action refuse to cooperate.

The dreams are large, veryyy large.

The ambition is real. Fatima genuinely wants success and she imagines it vividly. She admires disciplined people intensely and watches productivity videos with the seriousness of a philosophy lecture.

But when it is time to actually begin the work something curious happens.

Fatima suddenly remembers seventeen other things that urgently need attention.

• Open Pinterest.

• Rearrange goals.

• Watch a motivational video.

• Write a new plan.

• Watch another motivational video.

• Open twenty four tabs.

• Study productivity systems.

• Plan tomorrow perfectly.

• Sleep peacefully.

Tomorrow arrives...Repeat.

The fascinating part is that lazy ambitious people are not truly lazy. That word is actually misleading.

Psychological research on procrastination suggests something more complicated. People often avoid tasks not because they lack ambition but because those tasks trigger emotional discomfort.

Anxiety • Perfectionism • Fear of failure • Fear of discovering that they are not as good as they hoped.

So the brain chooses something easier.

Scrolling, planning, imagining and admiring other people's discipline but not practicing it.

Fatima lives inside that loop.

Fatima dreams big. Fatima worries big. Fatima imagines the future in cinematic detail.

But imagination can become exhausting when it is not followed by action.

Eventually the weight of those dreams becomes paralyzing because once Fatima begins something she might have to finish it.

Once Fatima tries she might fail and once Fatima succeeds she might have to maintain it.

Now here is where Fatima becomes painfully honest.

"One thing about me as a person..."

Fatima pauses.

"Actually was that supposed to be 'as an animal'?"

Fatima sighs dramatically.

Anyway.

Fatima believes one major thing holding her back is the fear of what happens after progress.

"What will I do when I can no longer go forward"

"What will I do when I cannot show up again"

"What will I do when I get tired"

Fatima thinks about this more often than she admits. Slowly without realizing it she begins reducing her goals gently enough to feel safe. Bit by bit and quietly.

The strange thing is that Fatima knows she has potential.

She knows she can build something meaningful for herself. That inner whisper that says "You could actually do something great."

But that awareness becomes pressure.

Fatima feels like she has so much to do. So many possibilities that the pressure to do everything correctly becomes overwhelming.

So Fatima stresses.

And stresses.

And stresses.

And somehow by the end of the day nothing gets done.

Perhaps it is PERFECTIONISM hence the:

"I am gonna start doing things in the most disorganized way."

Perhaps Fatima wants to begin everything perfectly.

• Perfect timing.

• Perfect mindset.

• Perfect preparation.

• Perfect arrangement.

Perhaps over-goal makers are some of the most paralyzed people when it comes to achieving goals.

When the list becomes too long, the brain quietly refuses to begin. Yet the cure for being “Lazy Ambitious” might be painfully simple.

• Smaller actions.

• Messy beginnings.

• Progress that is allowed to look imperfect.

• A page read even if the chapter is unfinished.

• A task started even if the system is not perfect.

• A habit repeated even when motivation is missing.

Discipline is rarely dramatic but rather, it is quiet repetition.

And Fatima may eventually have to accept one uncomfortable truth.

"You will get tired."

"You will fail sometimes."

"You will restart many times."

But movement will always beat imagination that never leaves the planning stage.

Anyway.

It is sad to say that Fatima is currently drafting a Substack article that could probably wait.

Fatima just why.

Maybe in another universe, I'm still 2 years old and nothing has happened.

“Well that’s weird…because why wouldn’t anyone love or miss their childhood?”

That’s the line that echoes in my head when people talk about how much they miss being kids. Literally everyone wishes they could go back to being a child again…but me? I don't think I have wished for that…or have I? I can't tell.

I get it, adulthood isn’t all fun on its own. Or maybe it is, but the responsibility part makes people wanna rewind. And then boom! Ladé dropped Adulthood Nah Scam.

Back in 2022, it felt like the last straw that broke the camel’s back because you needed to see the passion people poured into singing that track at every corner of the street.

Some probably felt it out of adulthood frustration, others just vibed with it, but in all…it became the adulthood anthem. Fairs.

Personally, I could relate to the music, but I didn’t quite connect with the whole “missing childhood” part.

In conversations about reminiscing childhood, I usually just sit there, quiet.

Or I chip in with something like,

“I don’t REALLY miss that part of me.”

Or, “Yeah…it was nice and all.”

And somehow, I always feel like the odd one.

But pause. Let me make something clear.

As a child, I liked being a child. I wasn’t in a rush to grow up neither was I counting years. I just existed. I ate, I played, I slept and I laughed. I did what every other kid my age was doing.

I wasn’t sitting there thinking, “I can’t wait to escape this.”

So when did the shift happen?

I think it started as a teenager.

That oh-shit moment.

The age where things start making sense. Where memories rearrange themselves. Where you look back and go,

“Oh.”

Oh…that’s what that was.

Oh…that wasn’t normal.

Oh…that was SA.

Oh…that was attempted.

Oh…that wasn’t okay.

And suddenly the good memories don’t disappear, they just get drowned.

One time I saw this list online:

Top 5 girls’ cannon events:

• Growing up hating pink

• Sophomore year downfall

• Losing your whole friend group

• Realizing it was SA

• Crashing out over that one guy you never dated.

And someone added: “Loving pink at the end of it all.”

I read that and thought…It's a universal thing then. I experienced all except the “crashing out over that one guy you never dated.”

But that “realizing it was SA” phase? That was the turning point. When I realized I don't really like being a kid.

When people talk about missing childhood, I feel like I’m missing something in the conversation.

Because everyone else wants to go back, relive it and hold onto it…but I don’t. I don’t feel that pull the way they do.

It’s not that I didn’t have good moments. I did. I had laughter, I had shelter and a loving family.

On paper, it wasn’t some extreme horror story. I know people who went through far worse and sometimes that makes you feel like your own story isn’t allowed to feel messy. Like you’re supposed to just be grateful and leave it at that (I am grateful.)

But that doesn’t change the fact that I feel out of step with the conversation and two things can exist at once.

You can be grateful and still feel like something was stolen from you.

When awareness comes, it changes everything. Once certain things make sense, you can’t un-know them and sometimes that realization floods your entire childhood in a different color.

So when I say I don’t miss childhood, it’s not that I hated every second of it. It’s that growing up gave me a voice.

Growing up gave me the ability to say no. To understand, to name things and to protect myself. Growing up made me more guarded and observant.

I carry mental notes everywhere. I’m hyper-aware and sometimes I don’t even realize I’m scanning a room…I just am.

And some days I’m fine.

Some days I’ve “moved on.”

Other days it hits randomly. I’m in my room, crying and overthinking -I just wanted to be a normal toddler.

Then the next day I wake up and function like nothing happened.

And that’s the part people don’t talk about.

You don’t always move on, you learn to live with it.

You build around it.

You grow around it.

You become because of it.

So when people ask, “Do you ever really get over it?”

I don’t know if you fully do but you just keep living. And maybe that’s the loving pink at the end of it all.

Yunno, sometimes I wonder how people who feel their childhood was stolen from them are coping. (Spare me the sad look, Karen.)

I'm happy that atleast I've got my inner child. I loveeee that little girl in me, she's very much alive. And oh well, you need to see that little girl's spark even with the tiniest things of life. Everyday I pray and hope I don't lose that aspect of me.

But what if it was all so complete?

What if things were not so complicated?

What if I didn't felt neutral about childhood?

I just needed a normal childhood, yunno.

Mom’s phone rang. Unknown number.

She picked “Who’s this?”

“Hi ma'am, it's Lionel.” (Or whatever he said.)

She passed the phone to me.

“It’s Lionel.”

She was happy to hear from him again, I was too.

But was it just happiness? Not even close.

I was nervous. The kind of nervous that tightens your stomach. The kind where your body reacts before your mind catches up. Somewhere in my head I think I was screaming, “Release meee!” (Dramatic, I know.)

We skipped the pleasantries. He called to ask for his project materials. Yes, I’ve been with them.

Still holding my momma's phone, talking to this one human on the other end, I thought, This call should be happening on my own phone, my own ground. So I told him: “I’ll text you from my phone.”

And I ended the call.

Guess who didn’t text immediately?

Me.

Not because I was playing games or because I wanted to make him wait. I just…felt sick. Sick in my stomach from talking to him.

I didn’t know if I wanted to talk to him. But I was happy to hear from him and I could tell I missed him.

Eventually, I texted.

“Why you delete?”

I had come online and saw a deleted message from him. I knew what he deleted and why he deleted it. Yeah, he hasn’t changed.

Still the same old human I had been with.

We talked. He whined, I listened and teased him like I always do. He knows I secretly enjoy it when he goes on and on about absolutely nothing, turning himself into this dramatic little toddler in the process. Somehow, it makes him…”cute.”

And right on cue, I’d say,

“Boyy, quit acting like a princess.”

Then I’d let out that small chuckle. (Smiling to myself, of course.) It was nice.

He talked, I talked, we talked. A...lot!

One of those rambling conversations where neither of you is really saying anything important, but you both know you just don’t want the call to end. You stretch the conversation and circle around nothing in particular.

Then it dawned on me that one of us had to draw the curtain. But who would it be?

That was when I did something unusual. I ended the call.

“I’ll talk to you whenever. Goodnight.”

I’m never the one who says the final goodnight. I’m usually the one stretching the silence, letting the call linger just a little longer. But this time, I ended it and that mattered.

In that moment, I realized something. I’ve learned to own my narrative with this one person…to take control of myself.

After the call, I didn’t feel relieved but rather, I felt exhausted.

Not the kind of exhaustion that sleep fixes. The kind that lingers in your head with your mind screaming “girll, get a hold of yourself.”

My thoughts were loud and suddenly, I had forgotten my work plan for the night. My brain felt scrambled and boom…the stomach tightness came back.

Why did I feel that way?

After reflecting, I realized something uncomfortable.

This person reminds me of the version of myself I haven’t become yet.

Mind you, he didn’t brag. He didn’t talk about wins. He did nothing wrong but something about him acts like a mirror.

When I speak to him, I see my unfinished goals, my paused ambitions and the things I said I would do.

He pushes me to want more. To go big. To grow.

But is that push healthy…or is it just pressure? I genuinely don’t know.

But all I know is this: Sometimes a person can feel like comfort and confrontation at the same time and that kind of mirror is often not easy to look into.

If you’ve ever spoken to someone who felt like both safety and self awareness in one body, I’d love to hear your story.

From my restless thoughts to your quiet screen, my thoughts end here. Have a lovely day.