✦The Quiet Pull

She stood at the edge of the room
like someone visiting a memory
they weren’t sure they were allowed to keep.

The journal sat where it always had.
Nothing had changed—
and yet,
everything had.

Since the dream,
she’d felt a pressure.
Not grief exactly—
grief was loud.
This was quiet, constant,
like the hush before a line is spoken
on a stage not yet lit.

She reached for it once.
Stopped.

There was a fear in her—not of death,
but of being read.
As if the moment she touched the journal,
he might see her
too clearly.

What would he find?
A woman still frozen at the door.
A heart not broken,
but suspended—
midbeat, midgrief, midline.

She finally opened it.
Not quickly,
not dramatically.
Like one opens an envelope
they never expected to arrive.

And there—beneath the faint ghost
of the sentence she’d seen before—
was another.
New. Still indenting.
Still warm.

She closed the journal
as the wind moved through the house.
But the air didn’t feel cold.
It felt… unfinished.

And she wasn’t afraid anymore.
#thought