Crimson Echoes

The city air tasted of rain and something else—a fleeting sweetness I couldn't place.
He said he liked my silence, the way it held a certain weight. Perhaps he mistook it for composure.
I walked through the fallen leaves, each step a deliberate displacement. The red umbrella was an extension of the grief I carried; ornate, beautiful, and utterly isolating.
The camera lens felt like a shield—a barrier against unwanted touch, unsolicited emotions. It captured surfaces, textures, but never the subtle tremors beneath.
He sent another message: 'Thinking of you.' I didn't reply. Words were insufficient anchors for the currents within me.

Editor: Cold Brew