Ephemeral Bloom

The city exhales, a grey ghost fading with the dawn. He finds me here, always. Not searching – we’ve moved past needing to *find* each other; more like two frequencies aligning after static.
He says my silence is a language he understands fluently. A lie, perhaps, deliciously so. I choose this quiet because words feel… insufficient. How do you articulate the way someone recalibrates your internal compass?
The chipped porcelain of these park benches holds echoes of countless untold stories; fragments of laughter, tears swallowed in the rain, promises whispered into the indifferent wind. Ours is still being written.
He reaches for my hand, a gesture so simple it feels like an offering – a fragile bloom extended across a chasm. I let him lace our fingers together, a slow burn igniting at his touch. A silent treaty of skin against skin.
This isn't about forever. Forever is a construct, a gilded cage. This is about the exquisite ache of now, and the willingness to fall into it.

Editor: The Trendsetter