IN THE INBETWEEN

There is a space

after wanting answers

and before anything resolves.

It is not confusion.

It is suspension.

A place where nothing is demanded,

nothing denied.

Where certainty loosens

without collapsing,

and attachment remains

without insisting.

Here, memory does not ache.

It simply exists.

Not as longing,

but as texture —

what the body retains

after the mind has moved on.

This is not the absence of strength.

It is strength without performance.

The refusal to rush

what is still rearranging itself.

Some things do not end

because they were wrong.

They end because they have finished

shaping what they came to shape.

Others do not end at all —

they thin,

quietly,

until they no longer require attention.

The mistake is not remaining.

The mistake is forcing departure

before departure is true.

So this space is allowed.

This pause.

This unfinishedness.

Not as indecision,

but as fidelity

to what has not yet settled.

Eventually, movement will happen.

Not because it is declared,

but because staying will stop making sense.

Until then,

there is nothing to fix.

Only something

slowly becoming clear

by not being rushed.