What We Saw

They were watching the same thing.

The screen was on. The sound was steady. The images moved in the usual way—nothing dramatic in the room itself. A chair creaked when someone shifted their weight. A glass was set down on the table.

When it ended, one person exhaled and said, “That was unsettling.”

Another said, “I don’t see the problem.”

They looked at each other, surprised—not angry yet, just confused. Each was certain they had paid attention. Each could describe what they saw in detail. Each felt the ground of their understanding was solid.

They began to talk.

As they did, something subtle happened. The moment they were referring to started to change shape. Not on the screen—it had already gone—but in the space between them. Certain details grew louder. Others faded. Tone began to matter more than sequence. Meaning arrived before curiosity.

Outside, a car passed. The light shifted slightly in the room.

Eventually, a story formed. It sounded coherent. It had a beginning and a reason and a conclusion. It felt like relief to say it out loud.

But later, alone, each of them remembered something else.
A flicker. A pause. A feeling that didn’t quite fit the words they’d used.

The moment itself hadn’t needed agreement.
It had already happened.