For you, I'd stand still

Twelve O'Clock

It's always been strange to me, this pull between past and present, grief and growth.

The tingling has grown, but now it doesn't feel like a warning so much as a constant presence. It's like static, buzzing against my skin, against my bones. Some days, it's barely a whisper, a faint echo that I can almost ignore. Other days, it's like an electric charge, crawling up my spine, making my muscles twitch. And tonight, it's unbearable anguish.

I stand at the window of the small studio where we've been painting again. The brush feels strange in my hand, as though it no longer fits. I haven't worked on the canvas for days now, not since I finished the last touch of color - a piece that seemed to unlock something deep inside me. But tonight, as I stare at it, I feel like I've painted myself into a corner. I can't decide if the work is finished or if I'm just afraid to keep going.

I hear Mateo and Ilsy in the next room. Their soft laughter, the sound of them moving around, doing something mundane, filling the space. And I realise how much of my life, my mind, has been consumed with the fear of standing still, of becoming paralysed by the past. And now, it seems like that fear has followed me. The longer I stay in one place, the more I feel it closing in on me.

I turn away from the window, my heart racing, but not because of the thoughts in my head. It's the feeling in my body. The tingling in my fingertips. The aching in my legs that seems to come from standing too long. It's like my muscles have forgotten what it means to move. But I don't dare sit down. The thought of being still for too long - trapped in that position again - sends a disgusting shudder through me.

I should be able to move. I should be able to walk, to breathe, to live without this weight.

But still...there it is. Always.

A door creaks open behind me. Mateo's voice breaks the silence, low and gentle. "Rose, you alright?"

I can't answer him right away. My legs feel weak, but I force them to carry me across the room. He steps closer, his eyes searching mine. I can tell he knows something's wrong. He always does.

"Rose," he says again, quieter this time, "You don't have to hide from me, you know. What's going on?"

I stare at him, feeling the familiar tug inside me - the part of me that wants to tell him everything, to let him in fully, to make sense of this together. But the words catch in my throat, and I turn away. I feel the pressure building in my chest, the cold sweat creeping down my neck.

"I just-" I start, but I can't finish. The words don't come. I look down at my hands, watching them tremble slightly. Maybe it's the tension. Maybe it's the memories. Maybe it's just...fear.

But the tingling in my legs spreads, and I understand I've been standing still too long. My body starts to feel heavier, like it's being pulled down into the floor. My chest tightens, my breath shallow. I can't move. Not anymore.

The room feels smaller now. The walls are closing in.

Mateo steps closer, his hands resting on my shoulders. His touch is grounding, but even he can't completely shake the heaviness that's settled over me. He tries to meet my eyes, but I can't look at him. Not now.

"Rose," he says softly. "Talk to me."

But the words won't come. I try to take a step, but my feet feel glued to the ground. The heavy dark is louder now, almost deafening, and my whole body aches, like something is pulling me in every direction, trying to tear me apart.

It's not real. It can't be.

I take another step, but my legs betray me, and I stumble, barely catching myself on the edge of the table. I can hear Mateo calling my name, but it's distant, like he's far away even though I know he's right behind me.