There was a language only we understood the way your fingers brushed mine when you passed me a coffee mug, the way Whiskers curled in the crook of your arm during long afternoons, the way our eyes met across a room and said everything without a single sound.
Sometimes you would whisper your dreams to Whiskers as you painted, your voice low and secret, trusting her to keep them safe.
But even without hearing them, I knew. I felt every dream you ever had because they lived inside me too.