The day she decided to leave, she didn't know she'd decided.
The decision arrived before the thinking. The certainty was in her stomach before it was in her mind — a physical thing, a clarity, almost a sound. She woke with it. She lay there for a moment and felt it, and then the thinking started up, as it always did, and tried to argue with the certainty.
The thinking had arguments. It had been building arguments for two years.
But the certainty was earlier than the arguments. The certainty was older.
She'd spent her life distrusting this. She'd been told, by various authorities, that feelings were unreliable and logic was reliable and the body's knowing was not data. She'd learned to override the pre-verbal knowing and wait for the mind to sanction what the body had already decided.
The decision sat in her chest all morning, certain, while her mind ran through the reasons on both sides.
By afternoon she'd stopped arguing.
She made the calls. She had the conversations. She did the thing the certainty had known about since before she woke up.
Months later, when someone asked how she'd known, she found it hard to explain.
She said: I just knew.
They nodded as if they understood.
She thought: you either know this kind of knowing or you don't. And if you don't know it, the only way to find it is to start trusting the frequency that runs below the words.
The frequency that runs below the words is carrying information.
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