I don’t sit.
I still don’t.
The choice has calcified in my body now, a fixed point I don’t argue with anymore. Standing keeps my spine aligned, keeps me honest. Sitting would feel like retreat. Or worse, negotiation.
Caleb’s restraint fractures so quietly at first I almost miss it. A breath taken too sharp. A shift of weight that’s no longer measured. His shoulders tense, then rise, like something inside him has finally decided it’s done being contained. The room seems to register it before I do, the air thickening, the corners pulling inward.
“You’re standing there like this is reasonable,” he says.
His voice is louder now. Not a shout yet, but it’s no longer controlled. The sound fills the room differently, bouncing off the walls instead of staying carefully aimed. It’s not precise
