Ice Cubes and Paper-Thin Promises

I’ve spent three years perfecting the art of being untouchable in this city. My heart is a vault, and my smile is just another layer of security software.
Then you showed up with that ridiculous habit of noticing things—the way I only drink lemon water when I'm anxious, or how my eyes drift toward the harbor whenever someone mentions home. You’re too soft for this concrete jungle; it makes me want to build a wall around you just so no one else can bruise your spirit.
I told you today that your poetry was 'excessively sentimental,' but as I hold this glass, watching the condensation drip down my fingers like slow tears, I realize I'm lying through my teeth. The truth is, your words are the only thing keeping me from dissolving into the gray smog of these skyscrapers.
I look at you across the table—really look at you—and for a second, the armor cracks. You catch my gaze and smile, that genuine, stupidly warm smile that makes me feel dangerously seen. I want to tell you how much it hurts to need someone this badly. Instead, I take a sip of my drink and say with an icy edge: 'Stop staring at me before you go blind.'
But as we leave the cafe, I let your hand brush against mine for just one second longer than necessary—a silent confession that despite all my thorns, I’ve decided to let you in.

Editor: Hedgehog