I met her in the hush
between two sentences
neither of us had spoken yet.
Her coat still carried the scent of rain,
as if she’d walked out of a different weather.
When she looked up, the moment felt borrowed,
borrowed from someone else’s life.
A stray lock of hair fell across her forehead;
she tucked it behind her ear
with the quiet precision of a gesture remembered.
She smiled at something small,
a corner of thought,
a shadow passing across a page,
the faint scrape of pen on paper
echoing between us.
And I felt it –
the quiet insistence,
the hush that waited
for some connections
to begin without announcement,
without expectation.
Outside, the rain eased its breathing,
and a single drop slid down the window,
as if marking the moment
before it disappeared.