Between Lines and Heartbeats

I have always preferred the spaces between words—the margins where a hand might linger, the silence after a sentence ends. Today, under this canopy of dappled sunlight that blurs into gold, I am reading his old journal from three years ago.
My fingers trace ink lines that feel like echoes; he writes about cities we haven't visited yet and dreams that exist only in the periphery of our conversations. As I reach a passage describing 'the exact shade of amber when she laughs,' my breath hitches, catching against the soft fabric of my shawl. It is an intimate confession delivered through time.
I can almost feel him standing behind me—not as he is now, but as a ghost of possibility. The air smells of damp earth and distant coffee shops from downtown. I press my hand to my lips in surprise, half-expecting the book to dissolve into light or for his voice to whisper directly into the curve of my neck.
In this suspended moment between page fifty-two and fifty-three, reality softens at the edges. The city’s noise becomes a muted hum; I am no longer just reading words—I am stepping into an unfinished future where every chapter is written in skin and breath.

Editor: The Unfinished