Time passes.
Not in marked increments. Not measured against crisis or recovery. Weeks, not days, gather and move on without asking to be named. The calendar shifts quietly, pages turning without ceremony, the way seasons do when no one is watching for the moment they change. One day slides into the next without friction. Nothing announces itself as significant until it is already behind us.
Adam and I are elsewhere.
Not hidden. Not displaced. Just unremarkable.
We live quietly, anonymously, in a place that does not know our names or care to learn them. No one watches us too closely. No one waits for us to do anything worth noticing. We buy groceries and forget half of what we meant to pick up, then make something edible anyway. We learn which streets flood first after rain and which ca
