Still

Warm.

Dark.

Safe.

That sound again—thump… thump… thump. It’s always there. Like waves. Like a drum. Like someone saying I’m here. I’m here. I’m here.

A laugh. Her laugh. Bouncing around me like butterflies. She touches me. Light pressure. Fingers, maybe. Or hope.

What was that? A voice? Loud. Deep. Then gone. I try to reach for it, but I don’t have arms. Not really. Not yet.

Still—I try.

I float in music. I float in heartbeat. I float in her. She hums sometimes. Off-key. I like it. It feels like dancing.

I think the dancing makes her happy. I think maybe I make her happy. When she moves gently, and the sound in her chest softens, I feel something bright.

What is bright?

I don’t know. But I want it.

Why is she crying?

I feel it. Not the sound, but the drop. The shift. The water around me cools when she cries.

No more humming.

No more dancing.

No more butterflies.

Just… tightness. Faster heart. Hers. Mine. Both.

I want to stretch. To press against her. To say, “It’s okay, I’m here.” But I can’t. I’m not… ready?

Still, I try.

Sometimes I twist. I flutter. I push against her, just to see if she’ll notice. Just to remind her I’m here. Sometimes I think she does. Her hand lands soft on her belly, fingers wide, still.

I press into her touch.

But she pulls away.

Light flickers in through skin. A hand. A rub. Slow. Gentle.

“Hi,” I think.

Another voice. Not hers. Words that don’t mean anything. Cold jelly. A wand pressing down. I twitch. They laugh. She doesn’t.

I love her.

Even if she doesn’t know it yet.

She walks a lot now. Fast. Her breath shakes. Her sleep is shallow. I wish I could sleep for her. Wrap her up in this dark that feels like peace.

She whispers sometimes. Her hand near me, but not on me.

“I don’t know… I’m scared…”

I hear it. Not with ears. I don’t have those yet. Not like hers. But I hear it anyway.

I want to tell her I’m brave. I want to tell her I forgive her, even though I don’t understand what needs forgiving.

Still—I hope.

Sometimes I dream. I dream of warm things that look like light. I think I see grass, even though I’ve never seen grass. I think I hear birds, even though I’ve never heard birds. I don’t know where the dreams come from. Maybe from her.

In one dream, there’s a sky. I stretch and float toward it. It’s blue and soft, like a blanket full of breath.

And then I hear her laugh again, but far away.

I try to get closer. I think I’m smiling.

And then I wake. Still here. Still floating.

Still waiting.

I think there’s a door somewhere. One I’ll walk through. I imagine it’s painted yellow. I imagine her standing on the other side, waiting for me. Arms wide. Face bright. I imagine I’ll call out to her, and she’ll know my name.

Another voice. Louder. Papers. Doors.

Cold.

So cold.

What is this place?

Where’s the music?

Where’s the thump-thump?

A new sound. Sharp. Metallic. The air is different. It doesn’t hug me like before.

She’s here. I know it. Her breath. But it’s not calm. It’s torn.

I move. Just a little. One last stretch. A curl. A flutter.

Do you feel me?

Do you still want me?

Still… I try.

Her heart is crying now.

And mine slows down.

The light never came. The name never came.

But I was here.

Even if just for this.

Even if only in stillness.