Gentle Refusal

I sit in the dark, my Himalayan salt lamp is the only light that illuminates the room, albeit dimly. I’m comfortable, my pupils dilated to clear my vision. A scent lingers in my clothes, not unpleasant, seemingly coming from the walls and settling into my skin. I’m sitting cross-legged on the floor, the carpet cushioning my bottom, barely. I feel no pain, physical or otherwise. I wait.

I’m in the shower, warm water cascades from my hair down to my toes. I raise my arms and stretch my back, a soft crack sounding from my spine. An ache I didn’t know was there is released, and I feel a little bit more relaxed than I was. As I am drying myself off, the phone rings, a flat sound I enjoy. I let it ring for a few seconds, my finger hovering over the green symbol. Before I can touch it, it stops. I put the phone back and continue drying my hair.

I move slowly now. The towel rests on my shoulders, damp against my neck. My reflection looks strange in the mirror, like I’ve been here too long. The air feels full, heavy with quiet. I open the door and the faint orange light from the salt lamp spills into the hallway, meeting the faint steam that follows me out. The floor is cold but the cold feels right.

I sit again. The lamp hums faintly, though I know it doesn’t make a sound. My hand brushes against the edge of the carpet where the fibers are rougher. The smell of soap and warm skin mixes with something old, like the air before rain.

There’s so much colour. It comes to me suddenly. I can almost see it through the walls. Red, green, blue. Not vivid, not real, just an afterimage that lingers behind my eyes. I think of places that had colour once, streets, clothes, light reflecting off metal. It isn’t a memory so much as an echo. I blink and the colour folds back into the dark.

I look toward the window. The curtain moves slightly, even though the air feels still. The outside world presses faintly against the glass, a low hum. I don’t move closer. The thought of opening it feels unnecessary.

It’s warm. The warmth settles on my arms like a second skin. Not comforting, not suffocating, just there. It doesn’t ask anything of me. I breathe in, slow. The scent is thicker now. Maybe it’s coming from me. Maybe I’ve become part of the room.

The phone rings again. A dull vibration through the floorboards. I don’t rush this time either. It feels like a sound from another place, meant for someone else. The silence after it stops is almost better than before.

I remember the sound of rain, or maybe it’s water. It runs through my thoughts the way the shower had, washing nothing away but leaving the idea of clean behind. I imagine stepping outside, but the image ends before I reach the door.

There’s music. Faint, low. I can’t tell if it’s real. It sounds like something someone left playing in another room, a song without a voice. I don’t try to find the source. The notes feel familiar, like a pattern I once knew but can’t recall. The rhythm matches my breathing.

It’s cool. The air changes, or maybe I notice it again. A small shiver crosses my arms but fades quickly. The temperature here is its own kind of balance. It reminds me that the world outside is still turning, that warmth and coolness exist somewhere beyond this. But I stay.

Taste on my tongue. It’s faint, like the memory of something sweet or bitter. I don’t know which. Maybe tea, maybe metal. Maybe the idea of speaking but not saying anything. I run my tongue over my teeth. The taste remains.

I stand, then walk towards the window. The curtain feels softer than I expect. I pull it back slightly and the night looks like a deep mirror. There are shapes but no details, motion without meaning. My reflection blends into the glass. I could step forward, open it, breathe the outside air. But I don’t. The room behind me feels more real. I let the curtain fall back into place.

The phone rings again. Three times, four. I let it. Each ring sounds thinner, less certain. I think of answering, of hearing someone on the other end. I imagine their voice breaking through this space, calling me back to something I left behind. I imagine not understanding what they say. I imagine silence instead.

The room hums. The air feels slow, thick with waiting. I realize I’ve been waiting without knowing what for. Maybe for the phone to ring, maybe for it to stop. Maybe for something else entirely.

There’s so much colour. It flashes again, sudden and without warning. Behind my eyelids this time, brighter. Not real, but close enough to believe for a moment. I see movement, hear laughter, a rush of voices. It’s all too much and not enough. I open my eyes and the room returns to itself. The lamp, the carpet, the faint sound of water in the pipes.

I sit again. My body knows this posture now. The smell has changed again, softer now, less sharp. I could stand. I could leave. The thought moves through me like a whisper and fades before I can answer it.

The phone doesn’t ring anymore. The silence is full but not empty. I breathe in, out. The taste on my tongue lingers. The warmth from the lamp brushes my shoulder. I wait.

Outside, something moves. A car, maybe, or wind, or nothing at all. I imagine the sound of footsteps, someone coming closer, a knock. The image feels distant, like a dream I’ve had too many times.

The lamp flickers once, though I know it can’t. The room holds its breath with me. I think of voices, calling me out. I think of how unfamiliar that would feel, the brightness, the noise, the air that smells too new.

I look at the phone. The screen is dark, waiting too. I could touch it. I don’t. My hand lowers. The silence settles again.

I stay.