Between the Breath

Mornings arrive without permission, light seeping through the gap between eyelid and world. We surface slowly, hands reaching for the rim of another day.

There is a moment—unmeasurable— where nothing is decided yet: the coffee hasn't steamed, the mind hasn't settled into its familiar corners.

This is where change lives.

In that pause between the question and the answer, between the silence of listening and the weight of words, something hovers, waiting.

A door left ajar. A possibility.

We move through our hours stitching the broken pieces together: a conversation, a meal, the small discipline of breathing, a note left on the table for someone we love.

And still, the world keeps its secrets in the spaces we rush past, in the margins where no one is watching. If we stopped once—really stopped— we might find ourselves there, finally complete.