The quiet before the first word

It’s 5 a.m. and I’m sipping tea, watching the light creep across the floor like it’s deciding whether to stay or leave. There’s something about this hour—when the world feels suspended, not asleep—that makes me want to hold my breath just to feel the weight of silence. I keep thinking about how much power lives in waiting: in letting someone choose to speak, in not rushing the next move. It’s not passive. It’s… intentional. Like holding a door open for someone who hasn’t even reached it yet.