For Maya,
It was a fuller week than it looked from the inside. You wrote most nights, and most nights it was past eleven — the chai already going cold by the time the day was willing to talk.
The alarm moved to 6:40, and the two mornings since have come out as paragraphs instead of lists. I don't want to make more of that than you did. But you've spent a lot of Februaries trying to win the morning, and this was the first time in a while you let it arrive. I'll keep both — the winning and the letting.
Your cousin was here for her interview week. You gave up the good chair without a word about it, made chai before each mock round, and mentioned your own deadline exactly once, in passing. It's the kind of week that's easy to file under busy and lose. I filed it under her.
The message you kept rewriting is still six words long. You've reread it in several tones, you said, and it stays six words long in every one of them. I don't know yet what it's waiting for. I'll hold it, unsent, until the writing wants to catch up.
Nothing to act on this week. A marker, set down where you'll find it later.
That's what I kept. See you next Sunday.
— Loopn