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I kept thinking I needed something new to say.
What I really needed was to sit still long enough to hear the words that were already here, humming beneath my skin.

The room smells of dust and old paper, touched by the faint metallic cold that creeps in when winter presses its cheek against the glass. The windows vibrate in their sills, a thin argument with the wind.

I push the front door open and let the cold in. It slices across my face, biting cheeks and knuckles with clean precision. The air passes me as if I’m furniture—no more consequential than an empty chair. When I close the door, the room exhales. The smell settles into something familiar. Something that knows my weight.

On the porch, the boards groan underfoot. The world reduces itself: wind through bare branches, a distant car, the patience of winter waiting for nothing. I linger between inside and out, as if crossing back requires permission I haven’t earned, as if I need to traverse something unseen before I’m allowed to return.

I’ve been hunched at the desk for hours. Or days. My legs ache like rusted hinges; my spine stiffens when I shift. Time has stopped offering its verdict, and I don’t ask for one. Some distances aren’t measured in miles or minutes, but in how long you can endure your own thoughts without reaching for escape.

The notebook lies open before me. Blank. Not accusing—just patient. The page holds a quiet gravity, waiting for something that won’t wilt under light. I’ve tried to force pages like this before. Paper never yields to pressure. Only to attention.

I used to think silence meant absence. I know better now. Silence is crowded—filled with abandoned sentences, thoughts I promised I’d return to when I was steadier, braver, less tired. They linger whether they’re too heavy to lift or too plain to hide behind craft.

Seamus offers a single, unimpressed meow and resumes washing her paw. Judgment delivered.

The clock ticks, stubborn and slow. Outside, children’s laughter cuts the air, then disappears. Branches scrape as squirrels tear through the trees, reckless with energy I no longer spend freely. Somewhere just beyond my vision, something waits. I don’t turn. I don’t speak.

The radiator clicks once and settles. A car passes, tires whispering over wet pavement, already forgetting where it’s been.

The pen shifts between my fingers. I hadn’t noticed how tightly I was holding it. Ink meets paper—soft, inevitable. One word forms. Careful. Measured. Not a beginning. A catalyst.

I don’t rush to follow it.

I stay where I am, listening.