The work always returns.
I don't mind it. Not really. I've built something quiet but steady over the years – a name tucked into the corners of the design world. Minimalist work. Clean lines. Elegant packaging. Things people like to call tasteful.
Most days I like it. The rhythm of it. The soft concentration. The satisfaction of balance and shape.
But it leaves me tired.
Not the kind of tired that sleep fixes. The other kind – the weight that gathers behind the eyes and presses against the chest in a way that's harder to name. The tiredness of minds stretched thin on empty spaces.
That's why it started.
The craving for something else. Something not made of screens and lines and words. Something tangible. Sensory. Real.
At first, I told myself it was harmless. I bought fabrics. Ran my fingers along soft seams. Not for fashion. Not for any real purpose. Just the feel of it. The texture. The way certain fabrics held weight differently. How some slid and some clung.
I thought it was just art.
And then it wasn't.
Now, even when I sit at my desk – hands on keys, breath soft, screen glowing – I feel it under the surface. The way my thighs shift. The brush of soft cotton. The hum that doesn't go away anymore.
It doesn't interfere. Not yet.
But I know it waits.
Always there.
By late afternoon, the edges blur.
The work leaves its usual marks: the faint ache behind my eyes, the soft pull in my shoulders, the weight of too many colors and shapes stacked in neat, invisible rows. It's not unpleasant. Just tiring.
I step away.
I make tea. I open the windows. I let the air move through the small rooms the way I always do. The ordinary patterns still soothe me – small rituals that bring the world back into balance.
But underneath it, I can feel the other rhythm now.
The low hum hasn't left. Even as I stretch, even as I fold my hands together and close my eyes for a breath – it stays. The memory of softness. Of pressure. Of stillness.
I glance at the folded fabrics stacked neatly on the corner chair. Cotton, silk, soft things I've collected without meaning to. They sit quiet, harmless. Waiting.
I touch the top piece lightly as I pass.
Not much. Just fingertips brushing texture. But it's enough to stir something low in my stomach. Gentle. Steady.
I tell myself I won't act on it today.
I tell myself I'm too tired.
But the warmth blooms anyway.
Soft. Patient.
And when I finally move back to my desk, I know: I won't stop thinking about it.
Not tonight.
Not anymore.
Night falls gently.
I don't remember the exact moment I stopped working. The sky outside darkened in slow degrees, the soft clatter of dishes and quiet rustle of evening life rose and faded beyond the windows. The city slips away without ceremony.
I change without thought: soft clothes, clean fabric. The weight of them settles against me in ways I feel too clearly now.
I tell myself I'm too tired. That I'll sleep instead.
But my hand drifts again. Resting lightly over the fabric. Just the pressure. Just the contact.
It hums immediately – steady, soft, quiet. The warmth fills without effort, breath catching gently in my throat. My fingers don't move. I don't chase anything. I just hold still.
The stillness is enough.
I let my eyes close.
The thought is there, as always: soft, full, harmless.
It's not wrong.
It's not wrong.
And when sleep takes me, the warmth stays, tucked deep where no one can see.
Exactly where it belongs.