"What happens now?" you ask.
It can happen so fast. One minute you're sorting through winter coats, and the next you're tangled on the floor with someone who's been a footnote in your life for years, suddenly becoming the whole story. Your back presses into the carpet, and her weight settles over you, and you realize you've been hungry for this without knowing it. tara tainton it can happen so fast
Our eyes met over the open pages. Something shifted—subtle as a change in air pressure before a storm. You didn't look away. Neither did I. "What happens now
"We haven't done anything," you replied. But your hand moved, closing the photo album slowly, setting it aside. Your fingers lingered on the cover. Then you turned to face me fully. Your back presses into the carpet, and her
It can happen so fast. But maybe—just maybe—that's the only way it ever really happens at all.
Afterward, you lie side by side on the floor, staring at the ceiling. The dust motes dance in the afternoon light, same as before. But nothing is the same.