✦The Sentence

It was late—
the kind of late that feels like forgetting.
Everyone else had gone.
Only she remained,
fingers hovering just above the open journal,
as if touching it would confirm
he was truly gone.

She didn’t mean to find it.
She wasn’t even sure she had.

But under the light,
when the shadows slipped just right,
a sentence revealed itself—
not in ink,
but in pressure.

Indented. Whispered into the page.
Words carved, not written.

She stared at it
long enough for the room to notice.
It felt like a riddle,
but one meant for someone else.
Someone who knew how to read endings
before they happened.


---

Outside, the wind changed.
Inside, nothing did.
Not visibly.
But she felt it:
a seam opening.

Reality, like a page,
had margins.
And he—
he had always been writing
between the lines.
#thought