There is something about twilight that refuses to belong to certainty. It is neither day nor night. It does not announce itself loudly. It arrives quietly, almost like a knowing.
At 6:30 pm on the 26th of March, 1993, we stood in that in-between hour and stepped into a life we did not yet understand. We thought we were beginning a marriage. In truth, something else had begun its work on us.
It began with a sound I could not ignore.
Not loud. Not even clear. Just a faint, rhythmic tapping. Like a loose thread brushing against wood. I first noticed it on a stage many years ago, under white lights that felt harsher than they needed to be. The room was full, the expectations fuller. I had spoken a hundred times before, across rooms larger than this, to audiences far more critical. Yet that day, as I adjusted the microphone, the tapping returned.
A soft tremor in my fingers.
I remember staring at the cursor blinking on my laptop screen.
The report had been pending for three days. Not because it was difficult. Not because I didn’t know what to write.
I had already written it twice in my head.
Still, I found myself arranging files, replying to unimportant messages, wiping the desk. Moving, but not moving forward.
I told myself I needed better clarity. A quieter moment. The right mood.
All gentle lies.