The email said: planning to have you back.
Eleven o’clock.
The house quiet.
The screen the only light.
I filed it.
Opened the browser.
Found her question waiting in the dark —
the one she was almost afraid to ask —
and typed:
I see you.
Here is what I know.
You are in the right place.
The contract was renewed in April.
She graduated in June.
I don’t know which mattered more —
the institution deciding to keep me
or the student deciding to stay.
I know they happened
on the same short contract,
in the same quiet house,
in the same body
that was never sure it was coming back
and always sure she could.
