Fractured Reflections

The city exhaled dampness.
It clung to the glass, distorted my face into something unfamiliar – a ghost of wanting.
He’d left a mug on the counter, still warm from his commute. The ceramic held no heat now, only the residue of steam and a faint scent of cardamom. I didn't touch it.
The rain wasn’t cleansing; it was layering. Another film over the already blurred edges.
My reflection multiplied, fractured across the slick surface – each shard holding a different version of me. A sadness, sharp and brittle like ice.
He never asked what I needed. Just left the mug and turned away.
It wasn't an act of kindness. More…a quiet acknowledgement of absence.
I traced a droplet with my fingertip, watching it cascade down, carrying a fragment of myself with it. The cold was preferable to the slow burn.

Editor: Cold Brew