Petals & Rebellion

The rain always smells like regret in this city. He found me on a Thursday, tucked away in that dusty vintage bookstore – the kind of place where forgotten desires linger like old paperbacks.
He didn’t say much. Just watched me trace the spine of a worn copy of ‘Wilde.’ Said he liked my eyes. Not a gushy, clingy compliment. More… an observation. Like he already knew something that needed to be seen.
We started with coffee – strong espresso, black as our moods seemed to be.
Then nights spent decoding old jazz records in his tiny apartment, the scent of sandalwood and unspoken possibilities thick in the air. He didn't ask about my past, didn’t offer promises or reassurances. Just a quiet, steady presence that felt like a slow burn.
The ‘love brain’ whispers started almost immediately – a desperate yearning for validation, for something to cling to. I crushed them with the heel of my boot.
Tonight, he's holding my hand as we watch the city lights bleed into the grey sky. He smells like rain and smoke and something undeniably delicious.
He’s not saying ‘you’re beautiful.’ He just tilted his head slightly, a hint of that knowing glint in his eyes. ‘Let’s go somewhere where the only rules are our own,’ he murmured.
And for once, that's enough. More than enough.

Editor: Ginny on the Rocks