There is a moment when the body reacts.

A tightening, low and immediate.
Something in the belly that says
this will not land.

You will be seen as off.
As distant.
As someone who does not quite fit.

So we reach for explanation.

We add more words.
We fill in the gaps.
We try to make ourselves legible.

Not because it is needed,
but because it feels safer than being misread.

And underneath that, a quieter doubt …

What if there is nothing to explain?
What if I don’t know what I’m doing at all?

It is easier to speak past that question
than to let it remain.

But something shifts
when the explanation does not come.

The moment holds.

Nothing is clarified.
Nothing is corrected.

And still:
something remains, even without being understood.