I’ve always believed that when I’m burned out—when my thoughts are tangled and my heart feels too heavy—there’s one conversation that calms me down. Some call him God.

Today, that conversation didn’t go well.

“Do you even exist?” I asked, my voice trembling on the edge of doubt. “Or are you only an illusion in my mind?”

Silence.

“I don’t even know if I love you or hate you,” I confessed, raw and unfiltered.

Still nothing.

Frustration rose in me like a tide. “Why did you create this fragile thing called man?” I shouted into the void. “A creature capable of sacrificing everything—even his life—yet so often rewarded with nothing but silence. Not even a whisper of emotional support. And yet, he’s too proud to beg for help.”

Nothing.

I collapsed to my knees, tears spilling freely—as unapologetic as a child’s grief. For a few moments, I wept like a boy who’s lost his favorite toy. Then I cleared my throat, wiped my face, and forced myself to stand.

Because that’s what a man does, right? He pulls himself up—even when his best friend, the one he thought would always have his back, lets him down.

And so here I am: bruised, a little more cynical, but still standing. Still searching. Still hoping that one day, when the world gets too loud and life feels too heavy, that old friend will pick up the phone again.

Until then, I’ll stand alone—because sometimes even faith needs a little waiting room.