A Midnight Confession to the Stars We Cannot See

The city below us is a sea of electric gold, humming with a million stories that will never be told. I sit here on this cold stone ledge, the night air kissing my shoulders and stealing the warmth from my skin, yet I feel an inexplicable heat radiating from within.
I wore this dress because you once whispered that it looked like moonlight caught in ink—a delicate slip of satin that clings to me like a half-remembered dream. As I close my eyes, I can almost hear your voice weaving through the distant sound of sirens and laughter, telling me that we are not just two souls meeting in this concrete jungle, but echoes from another lifetime finding their way back home.
There is a certain ache in this silence, isn't there? The kind of longing that doesn't demand an answer, only recognition. I remember the way your hand felt against my waist—firm yet tender—grounding me while my thoughts drifted toward constellations we could never see through the smog.
In this fragile moment, between the breath I take and the one I let go, I realize that home isn't a place with four walls and a roof; it is the way you look at me when the world grows quiet. Stay for another hour, or perhaps just a heartbeat longer, so I can believe that time has finally decided to be kind to us.

Editor: South Wind