The days after hitting send are not filled with relief.
They are filled with a specific kind of hollow quiet.
The kind that comes after a long race.
After the finish line.
After the breathless push.
You expect to feel lighter.
Instead, you feel untethered.
I sit at the desk.
The laptop is closed.
The file is gone from the desktop.
It is in the cloud.
In the editor's inbox.
In the hands of strangers.
It is no longer mine.
Marcus finds me staring at the blank screen.
He does not say anything.
He sets a cup of tea down.
Steam rises.
Twists.
Disappears.
He pulls up a chair.
Sits beside me.
Shoulder to shoulder.
We sit like that for ten minutes.
Listening to the house.
The fridge hum.
The radiator click.
The wind outside.
You are waiting for it to come back.
I look
