Midway through August, the campus library settles into its own sort of hush - empty halls, absent chatter, just those who can't look away from their work. Up on the third level, tucked between shelves labeled cognitive behavior and developmental studies, I stand scanning spines. One book holds data crucial to wrapping up my project from June and July. Overhead, the ceiling lights emit a steady drone, faint but constant. Each step forward sounds heavier than meant, muffled yet sharp against the flat gray flooring.
Round the edge of the shelves, just past where they stop. There it is.
There he stands.
Daniel.
Now here comes time again, doing its trick of standing still while rushing forward. A lump sits high in my neck. My legs won't move. All those quiet mornings, the slow realizations, the steady belief that being alone doesn't mean lacking - now it wobbles like glass hit by sound. Stillness holds me tight.
