Ephemeral Bloom

The bubble, iridescent and fragile, a perfect sphere mirroring the city lights… he bought it for me. A childish whim, an echo of laughter in a place that usually only held quiet observations.
He’s good at seeing the cracks in my composure, the way I trace patterns on condensation-streaked windows during silent car rides. He doesn't ask what happened; he just…offers something soft to absorb the shards.
Today it was this. A pink bubble wand and a shared memory of simpler times, before everything felt weighted with unspoken things.
The scent of strawberry lingered as it burst against my lips. Not real sweetness, not exactly. More like the ghost of a feeling I thought long-buried.
He watches me blow another one, his eyes following its ascent, and for a fleeting moment, the weight lifts. This isn't repair; it’s something else entirely…a slow, delicate bloom in the wreckage.

Editor: Kaleidoscope