Free of teeth. Free of weight.
It breathed with me.
And I realized, with a clarity that caught me off guard, that for those fifteen minutes every day, I didn’t have to put on a show. Didn’t have to reach for a clever line. Didn’t have to cover anything up.
I could just sit there.
I could just exist.
I could breathe.
I felt the slow, unhurried rise of my chest, the air entering and leaving without the usual hitch of anxiety. I liked who I was in that quiet. Stripped of all performance. I liked the version of myself that was content to simply sit next to her.
And I knew it, deep in a place I usually keep guarded, that if she ever asked me the question—the one I’ve spent a lifetime stepping around—I would answer.
That realization should have seized my ribs. Should have triggered that old reflex—the one that swerves, dodges, tosses a joke over its shoulder and keeps walking.
It didn’t.
Because it washer.
She had walked into the very space I used to flee and redecorated it into a home. Made it solid enough to stand in without flinching. Made it feel… safe to stay in.
I found myself wanting to step into that space fully.
With her, I didn’t feel the need to hide the parts of myself I kept buried. Instead, I wanted her to seeme. I wanted her to see past every version I had ever shown anyone. Past the easy one. The funny one. The one who never let anything touch him.
I wanted to show her whoever was buried under all of that.
I look down at the mug in my hands.
Hot chocolate. Extra milk. Less sugar, because she wrinkles her nose when it’s too sweet.
I hadn’t meant to remember that detail. I hadn’t tried. But there it lives, inside me, without my permission.
The first time I made her hot chocolate, I made it the way I make it for everyone. Standard recipe. Standard sweetness.
She took a sip. Her nose wrinkled. She didn’t complain. Didn’t ask me to fix it. She drank the whole mug, every last drop, and handed it back with a quiet thank you.
But I saw that wrinkle.
And it broke me a little, because she would rather drink something she didn’t enjoy than ask me to do better.
The next time, I used less sugar.
She lifted the mug to her lips. Took a sip. Paused. Her forehead smoothed. Her shoulders dropped. She looked down at the drink like it had surprised her, and then up at me like maybe I had too. She drank the whole thing again. But this time, a smile stayed on her face. That smile filled my chest with a warmth I couldn’t name. Only that I wanted to earn it again.
I carry it toward the back, where the small space near the storeroom has become hers without anyone ever naming it. A narrow table, a single chair pulled close, notebooks stacked unevenly. Corners dog-eared, handwriting spilled over, crowding the margins in dense, cursive loops.
Whenever she finds even five minutes, she’s here. Studying at every chance she gets.
Nora sits hunched over the page, brow furrowed in concentration, her lips moving silently as she follows the words. She doesn’t notice me until I set the mug down softly beside her open book.
She looks up, startled for half a second, then relaxes. “Oh,” she breathes. “Thank you.”
I smile. “Don’t let it get cold.”
She nods, already reaching for the mug, her fingers curling around the warmth.
