Fever Dreams in Linen White

The sun is a cruel lover, pressing its warmth against my skin until I feel like I might dissolve into the gray pavement. They tell me this garden is for healing—a place to breathe, to find center. But every breath I take tastes of him. It’s the sharp, metallic tang of memory and the suffocating sweetness of a desire that should never have been nurtured.
I stand on these stone stairs, my white dress a flimsy shield against the world's judgment. To them, I am a portrait of serenity, a girl seeking peace in the urban sprawl. They don't see the way my fingers twitch with the urge to tear at the fabric, or how my pulse thrashes like a trapped bird against my throat. My heart is a riotous mess of forbidden impulses, screaming for the touch that would ruin me completely.
I watch the leaves dance in the breeze and wonder if he's watching them too. Every shadow in this park feels like his hand on my waist; every rustle of wind sounds like his name whispered against my ear. It’s a beautiful, fatalistic sickness—knowing that to love him is to lose myself, yet choosing to drown in it anyway.
I smile for the camera, a practiced mask of innocence. But beneath the linen and the soft light, I am burning. Let them see the girl in white. They will never know about the fire that consumes me from the inside out, a secret rebellion written in every heartbeat.

Editor: The Escape Plan