There was a strange kind of stillness that lived between versions of your life.

Not the stillness of silence.

Not the stillness of endings.

But something quieter.

Something that existed in the space between who you were and who you were becoming.

Amara noticed it that evening.

Not because anything dramatic happened.

Because nothing did.

She stood in front of her closet longer than necessary, fingers brushing lightly against fabrics she hadn’t worn in months.

Some pieces still held memories.

Others felt like strangers.

And then there were the ones that simply felt neutral.

Clothes without emotional weight.

Clothes that belonged to the present.

She pulled one of those out...