The hotel room in Boston is silent.
Not the silence of emptiness.
But the silence of completion.
The silence after the music stops.
After the crowd leaves.
After the lights dim.
I stand in the bathroom.
Looking in the mirror.
Makeup removed.
Face bare.
Skin pale.
Tired.
Real.
The performance is over.
The author is gone.
Bella remains.
Just Bella.
No mic.
No spotlight.
No questions.
No boundaries to hold.
Just skin.
Just breath.
Just quiet.
I turn off the light.
Walk into the bedroom.
Marcus is sitting on the edge of the bed.
Jacket off.
Tie loose.
Shoulders dropped.
Exhaling.
Finally.
He looks up.
Sees me.
Smiles.
Small.
Private.
No audience.
Done.
Yes.
Really.
Yes.
He pats the space beside him.
I sit.
Lean into him.
Head on shoulder.
Heavy.
R
