For the 15th minute past the hour, when the world holds its breath.
Imagine me, not as I am, but as I could be without the stories I’ve been told to carry. No résumé. No receipts. No small talk armor. Just shoulders dropped, eyes soft, feet bare on cool ground. imagine me and you free 15
So let the world spin on with its contracts and its clocks. You and I—for this sliver of an hour, for this improbable, imaginary fifteen—are free. For the 15th minute past the hour, when
Now imagine you, without the version of yourself you perform for mirrors or crowds. Without the hurry, the prove-them-wrong, the apology for taking up space. Just you, leaning into your own strange and gentle rhythm. No receipts
We aren’t “together” in the heavy way—no leases, no promises carved into trees. We’re free in the way water is free: not careless, but responsive. We move around each other like wind around stones. We don’t need to explain the silence, because the silence isn’t empty—it’s the room where trust grows.
We are not each other’s destination. We are the good, strange, lovely detour. The pause that proves pressure is optional. The 15-minute holiday from the tyranny of forever.
And then imagine us , together, in that 15th minute of an hour that doesn’t belong to anyone.