Ephemeral Touches, Lingering Sunbeams

The light spills through the sheer curtains like a slow awakening, doesn't it?
It used to feel harsh, this sun – a spotlight on all that was fractured within. But he has a way of filtering everything, softening edges.
He found me unraveling, you see, lost in the echoes of should-haves and might-have-beens. I was building walls of silence brick by aching brick, convinced solitude was my only safe harbor. Then, his hand brushed mine as we both reached for the same book at a quiet bookstore… A small spark.
Now, he traces constellations on my skin with fingertips barely there, and I find myself yielding—a slow surrender to something warm, something real.
He says I'm a masterpiece in progress. Maybe. Or perhaps, just two wounded souls finding solace in the shared art of gentle repair.

Editor: Gravity Rebel