The Shimmering

Something wakes when he enters the room— not love, not lust, but something older. Something that stretches her limbs inside me, uncurls from sleep and begins to hum. His presence isn't the source— but the mirror. The strike of flint against stone. Not the flame. When I speak to him, I feel the quiver in my words, the tilt of my head, the current running just beneath my skin. He does not place it there— but he reminds me it exists. He was talking about something simple, something I would usually care about. But I could barely follow. His words floated above us like harmless clouds while something heavier surged below. His eyes were fixed on mine. Too fixed. Not with lust— but with longing, and confusion, or maybe the quiet shame of being seen too clearly. And I? I was no better. I nodded, smiled, said all the right things— but inside, I was already gone. The room disappeared. The clinking of cups, the low crowded murmur gone. Even time lost its grip. The world held its breath. All that remained was his gaze, and mine, and the unbearable hum between us. His face had changed since I first met him. More lines now. The kind age brings, but also softness. And yet, they did not dull the current. That's when it came: that fullness. A flood rising from somewhere deep in my body, pressing against my chest, my throat, my skin. Too much. I couldn't take it. The abundance overflowed. I walked its edges—like always. The wire buzzed. My body, wide with feelings, now felt exposed— foolish, tender. I wanted to say, Did you feel that too? But instead I smiled politely, and nodded, and left. People around us were laughing. And soon it was over. I was alone again in the noise of the world. There is a loneliness that follows the Shimmering— because so much is felt with nowhere to land. An ache remains, not for him— but for the part of me that had briefly come alive, and now had to return to a world that did not ask for her.