If there is a word somewhere, someplace, to describe the moment, she does not know it. She writes about it, on a small scrap of paper she hides under her pillow, but she can't find the right word. The scrap is blackened with words on both sides, words crowded together, overlapping awkwardly, hardly even legible anymore. Not that that matters.
What matters is the moment tucked away underneath her head while she sleeps. She wrote it down so as not to forget, and hid it so no one could find it. This sentiment, whatever it is, would be seen as a sign of weakness by many. She wonders, what would he think of it? And she wonders, does she even care what he thinks anymore? Has she gotten past caring what everyone thinks, finally?
But no, she hasn't. She knows she hasn't. And this moment is so precious to her. As precious as it is embarrassing. So she slips her hand under her pillow and clings to it. This scrap of paper, this ugly object that is not an object. It is no longer a physical thing, is it? It's become so much more. That moment. It lasted only seconds, and yet she felt her world flipped around because of it. How could seconds have such an effect?
She feels sick to her stomach, worrying. She feels butterflies beating to be free from her chest, from inside her body. She feels them everywhere. She can hear one in her ear, smaller than all the rest. She can hear the whisper of its wings. 'You are free like us. Come fly.'
She smiles a little into her pillow. And she is bravely fighting back tears. Or maybe it's not so brave. But she knows anyway, it happened. It happened and all she really needs to do know, wants to do now, is define it somehow.
She can't sleep, thinking about it. And she doesn't feel she really wants to sleep. She knows that the word exists, maybe once she even knew it, in a moment of beautiful clarity. If she is quiet, if she lies still long enough it will come to her of its own accord. She doesn't need to force it. There is all the world still to come.
Because of that moment.