The Body That Would Not Stay Still You know the feeling of a body that will not cooperate. The cough that arrives at two in

The Mirror You Avoid in the Morning There is a moment, and you know exactly which one, when you catch yourself wanting something you are

The Mirror That Stares Back You catch it before you recognize it. A shop window on a grey afternoon, your reflection arriving half a second

The Weight of What You Cannot Forget You are sitting at the table and someone says it — casually, between the bread and the second

The River You Cannot Step Into Twice You are sitting on a platform bench and the train is eleven minutes away. You know this because

The Morning You Stopped Talking You paused. Not for long — maybe two seconds, maybe three — but you paused before sending that message, and

The Phone on the Nightstand The light comes before the thought. You reach for it in the dark, before your eyes have fully adjusted, before

The Glass Feeling You adjust your posture before you even realize you have done it. The camera is mounted in the corner of the supermarket

The Glass Life You Agreed To You reach for it before you are fully awake. Before you have decided who you are today, before the

The Soma Hour You reach for it before you even know what you are reaching away from. The discomfort arrives — not fully formed, not

The Man Who Saw Too Clearly You are doing it right now, or you were doing it an hour ago, or you will do it

The Morning You Stopped Asking Questions You know the exact moment, even if you have never named it. You were sitting in a meeting —