Like the shape of a question that finally stopped asking.

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The knowing arrived not as a bolt but a slow uncoupling, like wallpaper loosening from a sickroom wall. It had no edges, no handle, no name you could write on a prescription pad. It was the silence between heartbeats, the pause before the toaster pops, the moment the elevator stops and you realize you’re not sure which floor you wanted.

I tried to hold it—cupped my hands like a child catching fireflies. But it bled through my fingers, pooled on the linoleum, became a puddle that reflected the ceiling fan’s lazy turn. The cat walked through it, shook a paw, didn’t care.

This formless form knew everything and nothing: the exact weight of a rained-on newspaper, the loneliness of a sock lost in the dryer, the way your mother’s voice sounded when she said your name from the bottom of the stairs. It knew that knowing was overrated, that what we call wisdom is just scar tissue with good lighting.

I sat with it in the kitchen at 3 AM, eating cold spaghetti from a Tupperware, watching it drift like smoke from a blown-out candle. It didn’t solve anything. It didn’t have to. It just was—a soft hum beneath the refrigerator’s growl, a permission slip to not know, signed by the dark.

When dawn came, it was gone. But the coffee tasted different. Like memory. Like mercy. Like the shape of a question that finally stopped asking.