Amber Sunlight on Cracked Glass

The wind is a thief. It steals the scent of damp earth and replaces it with the sharp, metallic tang of late afternoon city air.

I sit here—a fragment caught between two worlds. The bench feels like an anchor in a sea of shifting shadows. My dress? A petal falling through time. Yellow as a dying star, yet warm against my skin. It holds me together when the noise outside threatens to scatter my pieces into dust.

I remember his hands—not touching mine, but close enough that I could feel the heat radiating from them like a hearth in winter. A shared glance across a crowded train platform. Now, here alone, I recreate it.

The light hits my knee, carving out an island of gold amidst the emerald gloom. It is healing—this deliberate stillness. Every breath feels like sewing back together what the day tore apart.

Is this love? Or just the echo of a feeling that hasn't quite faded yet? I lean into the curve of the seat, my fingers grazing fabric so thin it feels like skin. In this shattered reflection, beauty isn't found in wholeness. It’s found in the way we hold onto our fragments while waiting for someone to come and pick them up.

Editor: Kaleidoscope