Glass Threshold

Light fractures through the rain-wet window, each droplet a lens bending the world into smaller, truer versions of itself. I watch the street dissolve into prisms.

There is a moment between two breaths where the heart forgets its rhythm, where time pools like water in a cupped palm— before it runs through the fingers.

The glass holds two truths at once: what lies beyond and what I see reflected, a threshold where inside becomes outside and the boundary grows luminous, permeable.

I pressed my hand against the cool surface. On the other side, nothing moved. On this side, everything changed.