Low Light

He says it. The words are simple.They rest between us, like a glass of water, set within reach.

They do not lean toward me.

My shoulders stay loose. Still, something in my chest counts the seconds after certain sentences.

The floor keeps its balance. A clock ticks wrong— then corrects itself.

His voice doesn’t press. It leaves space, the way light does when it intends to stay.

I notice his hands— open, not asking.

How he listens with his whole body. How he waits as if waiting is not a loss.

Once, heat came first. Once, speed. Once, hands knew where they were going before I did.

Once, safety was urgent. Now it isn’t. A shadow crosses the wall— uninvited, leftover—and disappears.

For a moment, my breath forgets its rhythm. He doesn’t follow it.

I breathe again. Nothing sharp comes next.

Whatever this is, it does not claim me. It does not hurry the moment into meaning.

The glass of water remains full.

And I remain—alert, still here, exactly where I am.