It wasn’t a fight. Just fog.
The kind that makes distance look intentional and turns reaching into something you’re accused of instead of seen for.
I kept moving toward a familiar shape, though its stature had changed. It stood like a monument I no longer recognized—close enough to name, far enough to doubt my own hands.
There was a presence in the mist, not loud, not sharp, just heavy.
Claiming the space between us and calling it care.
It was cold—harm wearing such soft verbiage. Silence enveloped me. This isn’t supposed to happen to those who love gently and show up without an audience.
I stepped back into the grey, the way you retreat from a shadow before it takes a shape you can’t outrun. I moved without turning my back, choosing the exit before the light failed completely.
I put the car in reverse.
And as I went, I pictured the fog thinning—just enough light for the grip to loosen and a familiar shape to finally learn how to walk on its own. A momentary dream, left in the mirror.
The fog stayed, the myth stayed, and distance did what words never could.
