Her Floor. My Mouth. One Quiet Room.

We didn’t need a soundtrack. Just breath, bold silence, and that one weird little machine that made the plants sing.

We didn’t go to the concert.
Didn’t fake excitement or pretend the bass drop could drown out whatever was really going on.
Skipped the chaos. Dodged the dopamine.

We went somewhere quiet instead.

A park she once cried in — alone, on a Monday.
Concrete still holding the shape of her knees.
Grass still whispering I remember.

We walked like we weren’t in a hurry …