It showed up as a misalignment between intention and motion.
A hand hesitating over a familiar switch.
A word caught just long enough to be heard before it escaped.
A step taken, then adjusted—not back, not forward, but slightly to the side.
People rarely named those moments.
They folded them into tiredness. Into distraction. Into the weather. Into age. Anything that let the moment pass without demanding interpretation.
But the body remembered.
Not as clarity—clarity is too clean—but as a mild resistance to repeating oneself too easily. As the sense that a well-worn path no longer fit the foot quite right.
That resistance did not always lead to better outcomes.
Sometimes it led to nothing at all.
Sometimes it led to worse ones.
But it did one thing reliably: it interrupted the fantasy that action and actor were separable.
You could still say this had to be done.
You could still say anyone would have done the same.
