I fall asleep thinking of small, practical things—a permission slip to sign, a chicken to defrost—but mostly thinking of the quick, dimpled laugh that lives in the center of my chest like a secret. The house is quiet. The moon through the curtains is thin and white. I sleep in short stretches, dreams braided with the day’s details: the smell of peppers sautéing, the echo of a little voice saying “I love you,” the heavy, clean smell of laundry. Tomorrow will come anyway, with its socks and tiny emergencies and impossible, overwhelming joy. I breathe in, and the air tastes like home.
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