Golden Hour Confessions

The sea air tasted of him, you know? A little salty, a bit wild…and utterly addictive.
I traced the freckles on my arm, remembering how his gaze would linger there, not with possessiveness, but like he was memorizing constellations. Silly things I notice now.
He said I had eyes that held too many unspoken stories. He wasn’t wrong. But some stories are best whispered against warm skin, aren't they?
It’s been months since we last spoke, a quiet unraveling of almost-lovers. Yet, when the sun hits just right—like it is now—I swear I can feel the ghost of his hand in mine.
Maybe that’s enough. Maybe sometimes, beautiful things aren't meant to be held onto, only remembered with a bittersweet ache… and maybe, just maybe, a secret little smile.

Editor: Cat-like Muse