The cabin...

Last night we sat in the middle of a small room—maybe the living room of some tucked away cabin. The rug underneath us was threadbare and soft like my grandmother's quilts. The room was fairly dim, with evening-light angling in through bare windows, casting shadows across your face. And in this place, I was the listener. We sat facing each other, your delicate hands interlaced as you fidgeted a bit, preparing your words. The way you formed each syllable seemed so intimate, each phrase heavy with the gravity of two that used to love.

I felt calm in your presence, and I let each word settle under my skin. You explained your brain and its inner workings—how your head and heart duet. Your walls crumbled little by little until everything I longed to know was laid out in the center of the rug, vulnerable and beautiful.

And although, at the end of the night, I did not find your head resting on the pillow next to mine, our hearts had an understanding. I knew by the way you spoke, in genuine tones with gentle gestures. You knew by the way I looked at you, as if I could see all of our moments of laughter and love at once in your eyes. There was peace.

And as I opened the door for you, we smiled at one another, as travelers that met on a journey do when that journey has come to an end. A smile that can only be shared between two that have experienced joys and pitfalls side by side and lived to tell the tale. A smile that acknowledges time spent together and hopes it is enough to bind them thereafter.

I woke up as the door shut behind you, and I knew that my dreams and reality would not match up. All the way down to the lighting and the feeling of the rug beneath my feet.