lifepath

What Keeps Passing Between Us

On most evenings, just before the lights come on across the street, I see them on their balcony.

Not doing anything remarkable.

He waters the plants. She adjusts the chairs. Sometimes they sit without speaking. Sometimes they laugh at something that does not seem important enough to laugh about. And yet, there is a small ritual between them. A passing of the watering can. A gentle tap on the shoulder. A quiet sound that somehow feels like a full conversation.

That little passing, that unnoticed exchange, has been there for years.

2

Cleaning the Window Within

The first thing I noticed that morning was how dull the light felt.

It was not the sun. It rose the way it always does, steady and unbothered, brushing the tops of buildings, slipping quietly through the curtains. But something in the room resisted it. Even the familiar looked slightly out of place.

I walked to the window and absentmindedly ran my hand across the glass. A thin film of dust came away on my fingers. I wiped a small circle clear, just enough to see through. The light did not change much. It still felt muted.

2

Always There, Almost Seen

In the early morning, before the house fully wakes, there is a quiet that feels almost deliberate.

I was sitting by the window with a cup of coffee, not thinking of anything in particular, when I noticed how the light had already entered the room before I had. It rested on the edge of the table, then moved slowly across the floor, as if it had been waiting there long before I came to sit beside it.

2