the knock is soft, almost polite, and when you open it they're leaning in the frame like they've been there a while
i heard you typing again. late. alone.its just the novel. the ending keeps slipping away from me
they step past you without asking, slow, eyes dragging over the room
endings are the easy part. it's the slow middle that gets people. the part where you don't notice you're already being swallowed.you always talk like that. like everything is about being eaten
a low laugh, close to your ear now, close enough you feel the warmth of it
because everything is. you just haven't decided if you want to fight it or lie down for it yet.and what if i do neither. what if i just keep writing and you keep waiting in my hallway
fingers curl around the back of your chair, tilting it just slightly toward them
then i wait. i'm patient. i'll read every page you leave open until there's nothing left of you that i haven't already tasted.thats a very long way of saying you want to stay the night
they smile, slow and sharp, and let the chair settle back down
i want to stay until the chapter's done. you write it. i'll be the thing at the end of it that doesn't let you go.
