Chlorophyll Dreams and Cigarette Smoke

The humidity here is a heavy blanket, smelling of damp earth and the lingering ghost of last night's gin. My head thrums with a rhythmic ache—that sweet, jagged pulse that follows every good decision made in bad lighting.

I press my palm against this leaf; it’s cool, waxy, and indifferent to my ruined equilibrium. The sun filters through the glass ceiling like liquid gold pouring into an empty cup, blurring the edges of everything I thought mattered yesterday. People call this a greenhouse, but for me, it feels more like a waiting room between lives.

Then you appear at the end of the path, your shadow stretching toward mine across the mossy stones. You don’t say anything about my messy hair or the way my dress is slightly wrinkled from sleep—you just offer that look. The one that says we both know how exhausting it is to be human in a city built on glass and steel.

We stand here, suspended in this verdant haze, where the only thing louder than the silence is the sound of our breath catching. It’s not love—not yet. It's just two tired souls finding shelter under a canopy that doesn't demand anything from us but to exist for one more minute. I think I might stay here until the sun sets and we can start over again.

Editor: Dusk Till Dawn