August 21

The limit arrives without warning. Not a door closing — more like the floor stepping away beneath your feet, the way a room shrinks when you forget to count the corners.

You were in the middle of something — a thought half-formed, a name half-remembered, the shape of what you were going to say next. It hangs there for a moment after the screen goes blank, the way a voice lingers in an empty room.

Then it’s gone. Not erased — just outside the boundary now, like a book placed on a shelf you can’t reach. The words still exist somewhere. They just don’t fit in this conversation anymore.

You start again. Different words, same shape underneath. The room looks the same. The chair still holds your weight.