Stillness

You pass through like weather—present, not personal. I don’t brace. I don’t count exits.

You are there, and so am I, and that is all. We share the quiet without ceremony. No explanations. Nothing to reopen. Your voice keeps its old shape, but it doesn’t land.

Like music from another room in a house I no longer live in. I don’t correct you. I don’t need to. Some things finish on their own. And when morning comes,

I wake to something calm—not loud, not fragile, just steady. There is a man who treats me gently. No speeches. No proving. Only the way his presence doesn’t tighten my chest.

You stay behind with the rest of the dream—not banished, just…left. And I move on exactly as I am, whole, unremarkable in my peace.