The living room is washed in the dusky blue of late afternoon, that in-between light where the day isn’t quite done but already slipping into quiet. I haven’t turned on the lamps yet. I like it this way. Dim, calm, hushed. The kind of light that lets you breathe a little slower.

Bella is asleep on my chest, her tiny body curled like a comma, warm and weightless all at once. Her fingers twitch now and then—those impossibly small hands, with nails like little translucent moons. I cradle her head with one hand, the other resting over the rise and fall of her back, feeling every soft inhale like a secret she’s entrusting to me.

She’s been here a month now. Thirty-four days, to be exact. I know because I counted. I’ve been counting everything lately—feedings, hours of sleep, the number of tiny socks lost to the laundry void. But also the quieter things. The first time she turned her head toward my voice. The exact sound she made when she yawned this morning. The way her eyes fluttered before finally giving in to sleep against my skin.

I haven’t moved in over an hour. Not because I can’t. Because I don’t want to. There’s something sacred about being still with her. Something that makes me feel like I’m holding the edge of the universe in my arms.

The house is quiet, except for the soft creak of the floorboards when I shift my weight slightly and the faint hum of the old fridge down the hall. The TV is off. My tea’s gone cold. Again. I don’t mind.

I glance at the clock.

He should be home soon.

Since Bella was born, everything between us feels quieter, but deeper—like we’re speaking a new language made of glances, touches, and tired smiles in the dark. It’s not romantic in the old way, but it’s tender, real, and full of this fierce, quiet love that we’re still learning to carry together.