I sit with Caleb after a long day.
Not because there’s something to resolve. Not because silence feels dangerous. We end up in the same room the way people do when exhaustion strips intention down to its bones, when the day has already taken everything sharp out of you and left only what’s essential. He’s already there, seated near the window, jacket off, sleeves pushed up, forearms resting loosely on his thighs. The light outside has thinned into that late-evening gray that makes everything feel provisional, like the world is holding its breath between states.
I take the chair across from him.
Not close.
Not far.
The distance feels intentional without being defensive. A space that exists because it needs to, not because either of us is guarding it.
There’s no agenda hanging between
