Still Here

I wait in the dark, where time has learned to move quietly. My heart beats slowly. Nothing arrives to mark the passing, and nothing leaves to confirm it has gone.

At first, I counted it. The hours announced themselves in small, obedient ways — the cooling of stone beneath my palms, the deepening chill in the air, the slow settling of dust on my sleeves. I measured patience the way one measures breath: shallow at first, then steadier, until it no longer required effort.

When the counting grew tiresome, I let it fall away. Time did not object. It continued without me, leaving its marks where it pleased. Dust gathered in the creases of my gown and dulled the white to something closer to earth. I noticed it and left it there. Brushing it away would have suggested a future that still required care.

Light moved across the ground in long, quiet shifts. It touched my hands, my knees, the roots at my feet, then withdrew again. I followed it once or twice with my eyes before learning there was no need. It always went where it intended, whether I watched or not.

The air changed temperature without warning. Warmth lingered longer than expected, then vanished entirely. Moisture settled into my hair and fabric and stayed. When rain came, it did not rush. It soaked, patiently, until there was nowhere left for it to go. When it stopped, I did not notice the moment it ended — only the weight it left behind.

My body adjusted in ways I could not name. Stiffness arrived and remained. Numbness followed. When sensation returned, it did so faintly, as though passing through a greater distance each time. I did not resist it. Resistance would have required direction.

At times, small creatures crossed the ground in front of me. Some paused, uncertain, then continued on their way. Others lingered longer, emboldened by my stillness. I felt their presence without reacting. They learned quickly that I would not interrupt them.

Sound reached me only after it had already traveled far. Wind moved through branches overhead. Somewhere beyond my sight, something settled, or shifted, or closed. None of it asked anything of me.

Eventually, I stopped distinguishing between what passed and what remained. The difference no longer mattered. What mattered was that nothing arrived to replace what was gone.

I stayed.

My breath is shallow and heavy now, ticking through the moment like a clock. I let my gaze rest on the horizon, then wander beyond it, as if vision itself might persuade you to appear. I search for the shape of you — not your face, not your body, only the idea that you might interrupt the line of the world.

My throat tightens each time I try to speak. What remains of my voice is kept for your return. To love. To cry. To confess. My ears have gone numb. They listen only for your footsteps now, emptied of all other sound.

My gaze falls to my feet, where dampness has gathered and the ground has begun to soften. Rain continues to fall on my white gown, darkened with algae. My long hair lies untouched beside my hips. Still, I forbid myself from moving. I will not erase this evidence. This proof of my patience. Of my love. Of my misery.

You, my dear love, have caused me a misery greater than any I have known. I loathe you. You have gone far away, leaving me in a place I cannot call home — where I have no one left to claim me, no claim, and no escape.

You have been gone a long time.

I cannot rest here. I cannot leave. I cannot be loved. I am alone.

Have you forgotten?

No. I tell myself this as tears slip down my cheeks and vanish into the rain. You promised me. My palms lie open, receiving what falls. I do nothing but stare — and wait.

There is a moment that arrives without asking to be placed.

I sit on a straight-backed chair pulled close to the kitchen window behind me and gather back a strand the wind has tugged loose again. I loop it once around my fingers before counting. The needles clink softly as my hands busy themselves with a familiar motion that no longer requires watching, shaping a long, narrow dish towel in blue and white. When I am almost done, I lift it up and a small smile passes over my face as I notice the intricate blue and white patterns, before my hands lower it again.

Behind me, I hear the sudden hiss of milk boiling over on the stove.

Almost at the same time, a deep, veiled voice carries from another room. It calls me. I know it does — though I cannot make out the words. I rise at once, taking the towel within reach, still warm from my hands. I move toward the stove, already reaching, already knowing what comes next.

I press the towel to the surface, wiping at the spill, when the voice calls again. I pause and turn my head, trying to listen. But the sound thins as I reach for it, becoming a fragile echo before it fades.

Then the space thins too.

The counter, the stove, the place my hand should move — all of it slips away at once, dissolving into a grey, motionless nothing. I still hold the towel, reaching forward, but there is nothing left for it to touch.

I let my hands fall to my sides as the moment loosens its hold and disappears.

I am startled, but only slightly. Something small in me attempts to reach back — and fails. Nothing follows the failure. No thought moves beyond the waiting.

I settle into stillness, and the waiting closes around me again.

I stare at the algae coating my gown. The tree at my back presses close, its vines creeping along my spine, learning the shape of me. The ground beneath my feet has turned to mud, holding them in place.

I realize then that I am no longer waiting, and that there is nothing in me that knows what comes after waiting.

The body will remain where it settles. Time will continue until it tires and leaves. There is no motion left to interrupt the stillness, and no future arranged beyond it.