Internal Affairs

Resolution

She lingers, watching me. Not with the same frantic urgency, but still on edge, waiting for the moment everything crumbles so she can take over. I feel her tension, the way she hovers just behind me, ready to pull me back into the old rhythm—one where I disappear into tasks, where I act before I even think.

But today, I do something different.

I sit up in bed. Not because there’s something urgent to do. Not because I’m falling behind. I just sit, breathing in the stillness of the morning.

She shifts uncomfortably. “We should start now,” she murmurs. “There’s too much to do.”

I don’t answer right away. Instead, I run a hand through my tangled hair, feeling the weight of it. A simple gesture, but it feels unfamiliar, like a language I haven’t spoken in years.

I reach for my hairbrush and pull it through slowly, listening to the soft sound of the bristles. She stiffens, unsure.

“What about everything else?” she asks, her voice tight.

“It can wait.”

She doesn’t believe me. I can see it in the way she fidgets, restless. For years, she has been the one holding everything together. The idea of slowing down feels dangerous to her.

I take a sip of water. Another simple act. Another quiet rebellion against the urgency she has lived by.

“We have to keep moving,” she insists.

I shake my head. “No. We don’t.”

She presses her lips together, struggling. “If we stop, everything will fall apart.”

I set the glass down carefully. “Has it ever really stopped?”

She pauses. Looks around. The room isn’t any more chaotic than it was yesterday. The world hasn’t collapsed.

But she is still afraid.

And I understand why.

I meet her eyes—soft, tired, wary. “I see you,” I tell her. “I know why you do this.”

She lowers her gaze. “I don’t know how to be anything else.”

For the first time, I reach for her, not to restrain, not to control, but to hold. Her small hands are still trembling.

“We don’t have to figure it all out today,” I say gently. “But let’s start with this.”

She hesitates. Then, slowly, she lets me pull her into a tentative embrace. She is stiff at first, untrusting. But when nothing bad happens, when the world doesn’t crumble, she exhales shakily and leans into me.

She is still here. I am still here.

For the first time, neither of us is running.

And for the first time, I choose myself.