I heard the words. I knew they were coming, but they felt nothing. Just empty like a lame "take care". His intention wasn't empty but words can be like that sometimes. My "thank you" was worse, like a vaccum sucking in the next sentence whatever genuine thing it could have been.
Staring at the ceiling didn't feel the same. The minutes leading to 12 were pregnant with disappointed expectations. Expectations that carried within them the knowledge that nothing is going to happen.
The bell did ring. Someone left me a note with 2 balloons and 2 dolls as a birthday present. It was Keya. Her "Happy Birthday" felt a bit more.
Now words are slowing down for all that is happening is the movement of the fan and its gentle repercussion in the lower rims of the curtain. I still occassionally hear the metro skid against the tracks which means its not past midnight yet.
Strangely, whatever moves is whatever happens. If things stay still, the stationery presence of objects in our lives is not much of an event. Like rubbing your toes half buried in the hems of a white sheet on a very pale blue bed writing each second as it passes.