There are moments lately where things shift.

Nothing dramatic. No announcement.

Just a small softening as if the world has loosened its grip for a minute.

You don’t notice it at first.

But by the time you do, you’re already inside it.

Music

We walk out from book club into the night. One of the last warm evenings in early autumn.

“It feels like a summer evening,” you say.

But it’s not. There’s something thinner in the air. Something already fading. 

The city is busy for a Tuesday night. As we head towards the station, music drifts toward us. Faint at first, then clearer.

I have my arm around yours while you tap your cane along the bluestone footpath. We’re not in any rush.

You stop.

“Where’s that music coming from?”

I look ahead. A man with a keyboard is set up in front of the State Library steps.

“He’s just over in front of the State Library. About a hundred metres from where we are standing.”

You tilt your head slightly, placing it.

“Do you think we could listen for a bit?”

“Of course.”

We make our way over slowly. There are only a couple of people standing around listening to him. 

We stop.

Your hands rest over the top of your cane, your chin resting on your hands. Still. Listening.

The music carries through the air, soft, steady, like it’s holding everything together for a moment.

I watch the city move around us. People passing, night lights sparkling through the trees, everything shifting.

And then I look back at you.

You’re completely still in the middle of it. Listening. Seeing it in a way that I can’t see. 

And it hits me all at once. How much is here right now, and how quickly it passes. How we’re both in it, but not in the same way. How this won’t last.

My chest tightens. My eyes fill before I can stop it.

I don’t say anything. I just stand there beside you.

After a while, you lift your head.

“Okay, let’s go.”

Just like that.

We turn, and the music fades behind us.

I start describing things passing us by as we walk. We talk about life. We catch the train.

Happy 

It’s that point in the night where everything has softened.

The room is thick with heat. Bodies pressed together, music running through the floor. We lean in close, mouths near ears, saying things we wouldn’t say anywhere else.

We haven’t spoken properly in a while.

Our foreheads touch before we pull into each other.

“How have you been?” he asks.

“Yeah, good. How about you?”

A pause.

“Are you happy?”

I almost answer straight away.

Then I stop.

The room keeps moving around us. There’s more I could say, but none of it belongs here.

“Yeah,” I say.

A beat.

“I am.”

He nods, like that’s enough.

“Good.”

“What about you?”

“I was in a dark place,” he says. “But I’m getting better now.”

I pull him in a little tighter.

“I’m glad. You know I’m always here for you.”

“Thank you.”

We hold it for a second longer than we need to, then let go.

Just like that, it’s done.

He disappears back into the crowd. The music closes in again.

But something has settled.

I stand there for a moment, then smile to myself, lighter than I’ve felt in a long time.