PROSE – 3TC #MM43

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The morning began like it had countless times before—but today, it felt different. There was a stillness that lingered just a second longer. A hush in the air that made you listen more closely. The slow fade from darkness to grey had its own rhythm, its own muted pulse. It was that fragile aspect of dawn—neither night nor day—when everything feels suspended, as if the world is holding its breath.

You hear the familiar rush of cars below, life going about its business, unaware of the quiet reverence unfolding above. You step onto the terrace not out of habit, but out of something harder to name. A need, maybe. Or a yearning to be part of something unspoken. You don’t search for a view. You let your gaze fall into the sky, into nothing. Into everything.

Then the sound begins. The piano. Tentative at first, like a thought forming. Fingers move over ivory and black, finding phrases that don’t need words. The melody doesn’t push—it drifts. You close your eyes, and it takes you somewhere. Or perhaps it helps you retrieve something lost in the static of everyday: a gentleness, a memory, a forgotten truth.

You lift your bow, not to perform, but to respond. To join. Your hands move, not with effort but with instinct, the strings vibrating beneath your fingers like a second heartbeat. There’s no audience, no need. Just the sound, the sky, and you.

Then you see her.

She’s there, just below, wrapped in morning light, coffee in hand, eyes somewhere far away. She doesn’t notice you yet. She doesn’t have to. She’s inside the moment too. Something about her stillness makes the entire world feel composed. As if her quiet presence is the final note that makes the music whole.

You watch her for a beat, caught in the beauty of her being, the unforced motion of her simply existing. The way she breathes. The way the steam rises from her cup. How the breeze toys with the loose strand of her hair. It’s ordinary, yet nothing could be more profound.

And in that moment, I understood what beauty and love was—
and it didn’t have a damn thing to do with sex.

You play on. And she listens—without effort, without expectation. Just as you play—without reason, without resistance. The world outside blurs. Time bends. You’re no longer trying to capture the moment. You’re inside it. You are it.

And for once, that’s enough.