Our soft chuckles ripple away as I awkwardly reach for the thick, black book that I know so well. Rather than turn my head to locate the book, I clumsily feel my way around the vintage suitcases stacked into a makeshift bedside table, succeeding in knocking over random objects in the process. After what seems like an unnecessarily long amount of time, I feel the smooth cover and pull it towards me.

“Are you ready for something possibly life-changing?” I ask, flipping through hundreds of pages. I know exactly what I want.

This is not the first time I have asked him this, but when I don’t hear an answer, I look up from the book. His legs are folded across my bedroom floor, and his right arm is bent and rests on my bed. He waits for me to begin, and does not notice that I’m looking at him. During the next moment, I see, for the first time in my life, a person who is perfectly at ease. The ease of a summer day or a Saturday afternoon is not perfect, because it usually translates to laziness; true peacefulness isn’t being at ease when there is nothing to be done, but being at ease when there is too much to do. He could be stressing over hundreds of important tasks. Instead, he gently lowers his head onto his arm and closes his eyes.

Over-analyzing moments being my Achilles’ heel, it takes me a while to remember what I’m doing. As I read, my voice is a doorway for forgotten ideas. Silence latches onto the last syllable and slowly creeps into every crevice of my bedroom, until the only sound comes from the sporadic clicking of my ceiling fan and the soft thud as I close the book. I take a breath and look at him. He remains in the same position, as natural as the sunrise. Time precariously teeters on the edge of standing still, and, right now, I feel it has. He slowly opens his eyes and looks at me. There is the faintest hint of a smile behind his calm expression. We are where we belong.