Down the hall, your badge-light bites the edge of my eye, and the big chairs cast long shadows that learn how to smile. The air says hush. I do too. I do too. When you pass, the room rearranges itself— backs align, cups pause, even clocks behave. One voice from you and the air falls in line; mine stays small, folded thin in my palm. I stitch the corner of my grin with quiet thread, so it won’t unravel—so it will. I say “good morning” like it’s all I’m allowed, and the day clicks shut, soft-latched, like a file. My words keep slipping, slick as tape, spinning with no label, leaving no trail— I try to look easy, try to look brave, and fail, and fail. If there’s a single drop to cool this fever fast, let it fall—right here—no questions asked. One drop, one hush, one clean erase, and still… I’m scared of being well. Because this ache is a compass, and it only ever points to you. Say it’s nothing—say it’s just a bruise— it keeps pointing to you. So I pack my feeling in a plain brown box, address line blank, neat corners, careful fold. I slap on a sticker, a barcode, a date, set it on the conveyor where the low lights glow. It rolls, it stops, it rolls again— at the dock of your door, waiting for a signature I’ll never ask for, like I never ask for anything. Seven steps like I’m brave, five beats and I break, halfway to your name I hesitate. There’s a boy inside me still tying his laces, in a borrowed lipstick smile. Behind glass, the big chairs laugh in bright, calm waves; I’m close, I’m far—same distance, same place. My hands: empty. My voice: a letter I won’t send. Tonight I keep the box closed, darling, let it hum in the dark, let it be its own proof. Fade… fade… the tape pulls the room away— and I still don’t say your name.
