It happened at 9:17 p.m. You had already arranged yourself on the couch, blanket smoothed, arms open in what you believed it was an irresistible invitation. You even whispered my name like you were summoning destiny.
Then I saw the box. Brown. Ordinary. Slightly crushed at one corner. It smelled like cardboard, tape, and the faint arrogance of delivery men who think they’re important.
The box does not fidget. It does not breathe too loudly. It does not secretly wish to be chosen. It simply exists, contained and obedient. You, on the other hand, radiate expectation. I can smell it in the air, warm fabric and fragile optimism.
The box is not cardboard. It is a statement. Clean lines and defined walls. No unpredictable breathing, no emotional needs. Just structure, stability and power.
Later, perhaps, I will abandon the box and climb onto your chest as if I was always meant to be there. The shift will feel like grace descending.
Stay seated. Stay open. Do not withdraw the invitation. And you will pretend you were never rejected at all.
