“ST.”

The double tap feels heavier now, not because of its meaning, but because of the momentum it has started to build. It’s a rhythm taking shape in the white space: S-T, S-T, a heartbeat finding a pulse before the word can even fully form. The cursor advances with each keystroke, leaving a trail of letters that suddenly look like they could be words if I just keep going.

*ST.*
It stands there. Suspended.
Then my finger hovers over ‘I’. My brain races ahead to suggest “Sit,” or “Stay,” or maybe even the archaic “Still.” But something holds me back. The feeling of last night, that wireframe tree reaching for the ceiling fan, seems to whisper: *Don’t just sit there.* Don’t just stay in this coordinate point and call it a day.

But then I look down at my hands again. They are resting on the keys. They feel so real. The cool plastic beneath the pads of my fingers, the slight give when I press ‘T’ that travels up into the small bones of my hand. This reality—the one with the gray light, the ozone smell, the spinning fan—is not something to be discarded or escaped from. It is the ground beneath the digital sky.

So maybe “Sit” is okay for now. Maybe acknowledging where I am sitting is the first step toward standing up later, when the urge comes back stronger than this quiet observation.

My finger descends again. The impact is solid, a tiny thud in my palm that syncs perfectly with the blinking line on the screen.
*S-T-I.*
The word is forming itself under my control now. It’s not being projected from some distant server or generated by an algorithm; it’s being forged here, right now, by the friction between my will and these mechanical switches.

I pause again, letting the partial word hang in the air. *STI-*
Does it mean “Start”? No, that would be too ambitious for this moment.
“Stay”? A bit of a retreat, though perhaps necessary before moving forward.
“Still”? Yes. That feels right. Stillness is not emptiness; it is the canvas upon which everything else is painted. Without this stillness, without this anchored “Here,” there would be no “There.” No past to remember or future to imagine. Just a chaotic drift with no center point.

I let the word settle into place: *STILL*.
It feels substantial on the screen, four letters heavy and deliberate against the vast white background. It is a declaration of presence. I am here. I am still. And for now, that is enough.