The Underneath

The apartment is small.

Everything is close.

So when I was reaching under the bed

for something I'd dropped,

my hand found something else.

Not dust.

Not the usual debris.

Something solid.

Something that shouldn't be there.

I couldn't see it.

Just felt it in the dark,

this shape that meant something,

this presence that didn't belong.

There are things under beds.

Dust bunnies and coins,

the things we drop and don't retrieve,

the lost socks,

the pens that rolled away,

the ordinary failures of gravity.

But this was different.

This was placed.

This was hidden.

Who hides things under their bed?

Who leaves evidence

in the dark?

I didn't pull it out.

Not yet.

I just felt around it,

trying to understand

what it was by touch alone,

trying to figure out

if I should tell anyone,

or if knowing

was worse than not knowing,

or if there was a third option

where I just left it there,

left it in the dark,

and pretended

I'd never reached

this far.

The dust is thick enough

that you can't see the back wall.

Just dust and the shape of something

that used to matter,

the shadow of something lost

or deliberately abandoned,

the reminder that

even in your own small apartment,

there are spaces

you don't control,

things you don't know,

places that keep their secrets

in the dark.

I'm still deciding

what to do.