Three million people passed away last year. They were nine, and thirty-three, and your age. They died of cancer and in car accidents on their way home. They died of hopeless desperation and from nervous exhaustion after trying too hard, for too long, to please everyone. They died in a Turkish hotel fire on vacation with their dad, and in plane crashes, strapped in next to their spouses and kids. They did not see it coming.

They missed the quick phone calls. They were petty to their spouse and sharp with their kids that morning. Most of them would give anything for one more hour on the front porch with someone they love. They no longer care who was right. They would trade the house and the money for one more spring run with headphones and a dog, or one quiet morning under clean sheets with a future to daydream about.

We can expect this year to be merciless in the speed with which it passes. It will shock, bore, aggravate, and delight us. Much of it will pass while we are distracted—magnetized to glowing screens and away from the in-person lives that would steady us.

The people who lost their lives last year felt just as entitled to it as we do. We can’t expect to be granted the whole year. What we have is right now. The only real question is how we decide to use it.

We are among the lucky ones who wake up inside this day. We still get to make coffee, answer a text, walk outside, and laugh. At some point this year, without knowing it, each of us might do something for the last time. The year will take what it takes. What matters is whether we noticed being here.