the way the light fell on the grain of the table, suddenly everything felt… less urgent, the way my breath settled in my chest, and the words that needed to be said… they just waited, no pushing. There was a time when 'waiting' felt like a luxury I couldn't afford, every moment a ticking clock of someone else's urgent need, my own breath always shallow, held hostage by the next demand. Now, sometimes, I can just sit and watch the dust motes dance in the sun, and the quiet feels like a homecoming, not a failure.