Page 72 of Unclench Me Softly

I blink. “Is that… coffee?”

He nods. “I figured your third eye was going to need a caffeine assist.”

I stare at him. “I love you.”

He shrugs. “I know.”

And for one horrifying moment, I can’t tell if he’s joking.

He crosses the dome with quiet confidence and kneels, far enough not to touch me, close enough to make my skin hyper-aware of the not touching.

He holds something out.

It’s… not beautiful.

At first glance, it’s just a flat piece of wood. Smooth. Simple. Worn at the edges. About the size of my palm. Faintly charred on one side, like it was part of something else once.

I take it carefully. “Driftwood?” I ask.

He nods. “Most likely.”

I turn it over. There are grooves in it, lines that look like they were worn in by time or water. Almost patterns. Almost letters.

“It doesn’t look like much,” I say softly.

He shrugs again. “It was the only thing that made sense.”

I glance up at him.

He’s not looking at me. Not directly. His eyes are on the piece of wood in my hands. “I like it because it’s been somewhere else,” he says, voice low. “It had another purpose. A structure. Maybe even a function.” His mouth tilts, just a little. “Now it’s just… still. Just itself. No use. No pressure. Just being.”

I don’t say anything.

Because that?

That is everything.

“And maybe that’s part of stillness too,” he adds. “Not having to prove you’re useful. Just… existing. With no performance metrics.”

I’m going to cry. I’m absolutely going to cry and he’s going to analyze it in real time.

I try to hold his gaze, but it’s too steady. Too smart. Too intimate in the way that only someone who never gives too much can be when they finally give anything at all.

“I thought you didn’t believe in this stuff,” I whisper.

“I don’t,” he says. “I believe in you.”

I blink. Hard.

He finishes his coffee and stands. Before he goes, he nods at the driftwood. “There’s a groove on the back. Could be used to hold something. A ring. A note. A key.”

My heart tries to escape through my throat.

He pauses at the flap. “Not all stillness is spiritual,” he says over his shoulder. “Some of it’s just peace.”

And then he leaves.

I look down at the wood in my hands.

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