Amber Reflections

The light bled from the candle, a bruised apricot staining the wall.
It hadn’t been meant to be this way, of course. The rain always seemed to find its way to this corner of Bleecker Street, mirroring the dampness in my chest.
He'd said 'later,' predictably. A word that tasted like regret and cheap whiskey.
I traced the flame with my eyes, a slow, deliberate burn echoing the one he’d left behind.
It wasn’t dramatic; no shattering glass or shouted accusations. Just…absence. The scent of sandalwood from his cologne still clung to the threadbare armchair—a ghost of him.
The bus pulled up, its headlights slicing through the gloom like a weary eye. A familiar rhythm of missed connections. I watched it pull away, carrying other lost souls into the night.
He wouldn’t be on it.
Not tonight.
But in the warmth of this small space, surrounded by shadows and flickering light, there was a quiet acceptance. Perhaps healing wasn't about erasing him entirely, but learning to carry the embers – the amber reflections – within.

Editor: Terminal Chronicler