Phone hanging loose in my hand.
Head down.
Breathing.
Just breathing.
In through my nose.
Out through my mouth.
Slow.
Careful.
Like if I don’t, something worse is going to happen.
Not a panic attack.
But if I’ve ever been close, this is it.
My chest feels hollow. Scooped out.
Like somebody reached inside and took something important with them.
Yesterday morning she was in my kitchen barefoot.
My T-shirt on her.
Hair pulled back.
Making eggs like it was the most normal thing in the world.
She kissed me on the mouth while the toast popped up.
Told me she loved me.
Soft.
Sleepy.
Real.
Last week she lit a candle on the deck and asked me to play guitar.
Just… play.
No agenda. No drama.
She sat there with her chin on her knees, listening like I was some kind of hero instead of just a guy with three chords and a half-decent voice.
And when we went to bed?—
It wasn’t wild.
Wasn’t the usual firestorm.
It was slow.
