There's a light
coming in under the door.
Too dim to be helpful,
too steady to ignore.

You forgot what you came here for,
but now that you're here,
you stay anyway.

A memory brushes past.
Not clearly.
Just enough to make your chest tighten
without knowing why.

The room feels too still.
You hear your own breathing,
then try not to.

Something inside wants to speak,
but the words don't fit right.
Like shoes a size too small.
You leave them at the threshold.

The silence turns warm.
Not comforting,
but familiar.
You've met it before,
and it hasn't changed much.

Then,
a shift.
Barely there.
The kind that makes your eyes sting,
but not from pain.

You look away.
Or maybe inward.
And just like that,
you feel everything,
then nothing,
then everything again.