Time does not move linearly when you are waiting.
It pools.
It stretches.
It contracts.
The weeks between booking the tickets and the departure date feel like months.
Like years.
Like a lifetime.
The suitcase sits in the closet.
Closed.
Zipped.
Hidden behind the winter coats.
We do not look at it.
Not yet.
Instead, we live.
In the space between.
In the waiting.
Marcus goes to work.
I write.
Eleanor goes to school.
Zara opens the second studio.
Life continues.
Relentless.
Unaware of our internal countdown.
But I see the shift in Marcus.
Subtle.
Almost invisible.
He spends more time in the study.
Not working.
Thinking.
He looks at maps.
Not digital.
Paper.
Old ones.
Folded.
Creased.
He traces routes.
With his finger.
London.
Paris.
Milan.
Rome.
He doe
