Condensation on a Shared Secret

The city outside is a blur of neon veins and indifferent noise, but here, behind the glass, time thickens like steam. I press my palm against the cold pane, watching my breath bloom into white ghosts that dance before vanishing. It is a private ritual—the way I trace your name in the mist, only for it to dissolve as quickly as a whispered confession.

You are not here, yet you occupy every inch of this room. Your presence is the phantom warmth beneath my skin, the lingering scent of rain and expensive tobacco on my collar. They say love is loud, but I have found it in the silence between heartbeats, in the way the light catches the moisture on my lips.

I am healing from a world that demands too much, finding sanctuary in this liminal space where we exist only as shadows and echoes. Every droplet sliding down the glass is a tear I haven't cried yet, or perhaps a bead of sweat from the fever of wanting you. Let them have their bright lights; I prefer the soft glow of a secret shared in the steam, where our souls touch without ever needing to speak.

Editor: Shadow Lover