First, I’d call the people I love.

Not text. Not “I’ll get to it later.” I’d want to hear their voices. I’d want no distance between the feeling and the words. I think if I knew my upcoming birthday was my last, the first thing that would become clear is that almost everything I usually treat as urgent really isn’t.

What would matter first is connection.

I’d want to say the things people too often leave implied. Thank you. I love you. I’m sorry for where I fell short. I’m glad it was you. I’m glad we got this time. I think that would come before any grand trip or dramatic plan. Before the bucket list. Before the scenery. Before the symbolic final meal.

Because when the idea of time becomes real, people become real too.

After that, I’d want one good ordinary day that wasn’t ordinary at all. A long meal. Music on. Dogs nearby. Sunlight if possible. No rushing. No fake positivity. Just real presence. I think I’d want the day to feel less like a performance of dying well and more like an honest experience of being alive while I still was.

So yes, first, I’d reach for the people I love.

Everything else would come after that.