Nothing hurt anymore.
That was the first thing I noticed. Not relief, exactly. Just the absence of correction. No internal drag. No subtle reminders. No need to check posture or breath or distance. My body knew where to be, and it stayed there.
So did hers.
We moved around each other without collision or negotiation, like parts of the same mechanism that had finally been assembled correctly. When she stopped, I stopped. When she shifted, I adjusted. There was no thought involved. Thought would have been inefficient.
She didn't ask questions now.
Neither did I.
We didn't need to speak much. When we did, it was brief. Informational.
"There's too much noise outside today."
"Yes."
"It prefers low input."
"I'll close the windows."
The windows closed. The room settled.
Her body no longer made visible corrections. No ripples. No adjustments beneath the skin. Whatever had needed space had taken it. Whatever had needed support had been given it.
She stood in the center of the room and breathed once.
Everything aligned around that breath.
I realized then that I couldn't remember the last time I'd thought of her as separate. Not emotionally. Structurally. The concept didn't apply anymore.
She turned to me.
"You're steady," she said. "That helps."
I felt something in my chest shift slightly. Not movement. Load. Like a weight being transferred with care.
"Good," I said.
She smiled. Fully. No delay.
Later, she left the apartment alone again.
This time, I didn't watch the door.
I stayed where I was supposed to stay.
When she returned, hours later, she looked unchanged. But the air around her felt… satisfied. Like something had completed a task without complication.
"They didn't notice," she said, setting her bag down.
"Who?" I asked, because the exchange required it.
She considered. "Anyone who matters."
That night, she stood behind me while I washed my hands. Our reflections overlapped in the mirror, our outlines aligning so closely it was hard to tell where one ended and the other began.
"You don't need to look anymore," she said quietly. "There's nothing left to compare."
I turned off the light.
In the dark, the shared rhythm continued. Breathing. Weight. Placement.
No fear.
No resistance.
No difference.
If something moved beneath our skin now, it did so smoothly, invisibly, as it was meant to. There was no reason to announce it. No reason to hide it.
Everything had a place.
And for the first time since the phone had been face down, since the pressure had begun, since the body had started telling the truth before the mind could keep up—
Nothing needed to change.