The Sentence

The sentence has been sitting there longer than I expected, long enough that I’ve stopped rereading the words and started noticing everything else instead, which is usually how I know I’m avoiding something. It’s a plain sentence, not trying to explain itself or soften anything, and once it’s sent I won’t be able to keep making small adjustments in the background the way I usually do, which turns out to matter more to me than I like admitting.

So I leave it open and get on with other things, replying when needed, staying involved, telling myself I’ll come back to it in a minute, even though I’ve already told myself that more than once. Somewhere along the way, I start picking up on small changes that don’t feel important enough to stop anything but don’t quite disappear either. People pause before finishing a thought. Someone’s voice shifts slightly, like they’re checking something mid-sentence. Someone apologises and then seems a bit unsure about why they did. None of it stands out on its own, but together it creates this quiet sense that something is being worked around rather than said.

I realise I’m doing the same thing in my own way, choosing words a little more carefully than usual, spacing replies so nothing tips, paying attention to timing in a way I normally don’t. It isn’t tense exactly, just busy in a low-level way, like keeping a finger pressed against something you don’t quite trust to stay put. I tell myself this is easier than sending the sentence, that staying quiet keeps things flexible, keeps me in control, which sounds reasonable until I notice how much effort it’s taking to maintain.

The quiet doesn’t stay where I leave it. It shows up anyway, in pauses, in tone, in the way people adjust around something they can’t quite see. Without making a clear decision about it, holding on to the sentence starts to feel like more work than letting it exist, and at some point that difference matters more than my original hesitation.

I send it as it is, without adding anything around it or trying to guide how it lands.

Conversation carries on without much attention from me, someone shifts their chair, there’s the usual background noise, and after a while I’m sitting back instead of bracing forward without remembering when that happened.

Whatever I was dealing with before is still there. That part hasn’t moved. What feels different is how much space it’s taking up. The sentence blends back into everything else faster than I expect, considering how much room it seemed to occupy while it was unsent, and I don’t think about it much after that, except to notice that I’m no longer adjusting myself around something that was never going to stay hidden anyway.