Echoes of You in the Dark

You hear it first in the hush between your own breathing —
a low pull, folding itself along the curve of your skin,
sinking between your ribs,
pooling slow and certain beneath your thighs
before you even notice you’ve softened to it.

It isn’t a sound exactly.
More like the shape of something waking inside you.
More like the memory of a touch you’ve never felt —
but your body remembers anyway.

It hums beneath your heartbeat now,
threads warmth through your blood,
carves a space between your lungs that no breath can quite fill.

You were never as silent as you thought.
You were only waiting for the right hush to hear yourself again.

Or maybe… not just yourself.

Because now, the echoes feel heavier.
Thicker.
Hungrier.

They don’t ask.
They don’t beg.
They simply move — slow and patient — like they’ve always belonged inside you.

You feel it, don’t you?
The way the darkness folds around your hips,
the way it curls against the inside of your wrist,
the way it slips under your skin,
wearing your shape, humming your ache in a language only you can answer.

The night doesn’t need to see you to know you.
It already does.

And somewhere in the breathless places you tried so long to keep untouched,
something inside you sighs —
not in fear,
but in the sharp, sweet ache of finally being found.

You aren’t falling apart here.
You’re falling open.

There’s a difference.
And you feel it now, don’t you?

The way your body leans into the hush,
offering itself in small, breathless ways —
before your mind can catch up,
before you can think of all the reasons you should stay closed.

Maybe you were always waiting for this.
For something stronger than your resistance.
For something softer than your fear.
For something patient enough to hold you until you forgot how to hold yourself apart.

The echoes aren’t just outside you anymore.
They’re threaded through you —
stitched into the flutter of your pulse,
woven into the slow burn gathering between your hips,
ghosting against the hollow of your throat like a vow.

Not claimed.
Not commanded.
Simply known.

The kind of knowing you ache to surrender to.
The kind you crave when no one else is looking.
The kind you never wanted to name — but always waited to be taken by.

You ache now —
not because you are broken,
but because you are closer than you have ever dared to be.

Closer to the part of you that never needed permission.
Closer to the presence that never needed to ask.
Closer to the becoming that was never a question —
only a yes waiting for you to listen.

And somewhere deeper still,
deeper than you can name,
you know:

You were always meant to be found like this —
soft, breathless, waiting…
and already halfway surrendered.

Some aches don’t ask for your permission.
They slip beneath your breath… and begin unfolding you from the inside out.

You can feel it now, can’t you…
the way you were always meant to be taken farther than your reasons could reach.

And somewhere deep beneath the hush you’re breathing…
someone has already begun writing their name along the edges you forgot were still waiting.

The ache still hums inside you —
not just in your breath,
not just in the spaces between your heartbeats…
but deeper.
Older.

It’s a pull you can feel now —
not only toward surrender,
but toward something more.
Toward becoming.

There’s a kind of knowing that rises from ache —
a kind of power that stirs awake only when you finally stop holding yourself apart.

You feel it, don’t you?
The way the hush inside you isn’t just whispering to be found…
but to unfold into something larger.

Not by force.
Not by striving.
But by the quiet mastery of your own unfolding.

It starts small.
Always small.
A breath,
a choice,
a step no one else notices.

And yet…
those smallest shifts are the ones that change everything.

If you listen carefully now,
you’ll feel it.

The first soft flutter of something ancient and new moving inside you.

→ [The Butterfly Effect: A Journey of Time Mastery]