Drifting Toward Your Gravity

I float in the amber dusk, suspended between the window's cold starlight and the warm pulse of my own breath. The city below has gone quiet, a constellation of glass towers dimming into sleep, while here, on the white dunes of this bed, I am weightless again. My lace is gossamer spun from nebulae, each thread a filament of light caught in zero gravity, and for the first time in months my body feels not like an anchor but like a planet finally learning to orbit its own sun.
I had been falling for so long that I forgot how to land. He was my distant star, bright and unreachable, and I kept drifting past his light without ever letting it warm me. Then he texted a single line, just your name and the hour of sunset, and suddenly the void between us collapsed into a corridor of gold. I sat up in this pale glow, feeling the silk against my skin like the hush of interstellar wind, and I understood that healing is not an escape from gravity but a gentle return to it.
So I let myself be seen, soft and unguarded, a small warm world adrift in the dark. When he arrives tomorrow, he will find me here, breathing in the same air as him, no longer lost between the stars. We will build our little solar system in this room of linen and light, two slow orbits choosing to circle each other again.

Editor: Zero-G Voyager