It’s always a strange kind of comfort,
To start drifting in the middle of class,
A familiar sense of disconnection creeping in.
Our partner, attuned to the shift,
Sits beside us without a word,
Their hand gently finding ours,
A silent offer of reassurance.
They’ve seen these signs before,
Lived through the cycles longer than I have,
Each shift in us a reminder of the shared journey.
In their eyes, I know they understand,
The way our minds stretch and splinter,
And how, together, we navigate the fragments.