Before the Sentence

Before anything is said, my body adjusts.

Not noticeably. Just enough to register the room as if it were weather. My jaw sets— not in defense, more like recognition.

I notice the placement of doors. The distance between us. How sound carries here. The air holds a fraction longer than it should.

I listen not for words but for what follows them. The sentence begins somewhere outside of sound. And I decide, quietly,

whether I am still.