A moment before forever

I went downstairs later, not because I was thirsty, but because my chest felt too tight to breathe upstairs. The walls had begun to feel close, heavy with thoughts I couldn’t quiet. I told myself water would help, that the simple act of holding a glass, of swallowing something cold, might ground me back into my body.

The living room lights were on. The television was on. And before I even stepped fully into the space, I felt it—the weight in the air, thick and uneasy.

My mother stood near the couch, her arms folded tightly across her chest. A few of the maids were gathered nearby, unusually still, their eyes fixed on the screen. No one was speaking. No one noticed me at first. The only sound was the low, grave voice of the news anchor filling the room.

I stopped walking.

The footage replayed scenes I had already seen, yet they looked worse from this angle—more distant, more unreal, more cruel. 

The words “