Submerged in the Static

The city doesn't sleep; it just holds its breath, suffocating under the weight of neon signs and unsaid expectations. I prefer my silence in a pool—liquid glass that muffles the roar of the traffic outside. They call this healing, but let’s be honest: it’s an escape from the performance of existing.

I watch the water ripple against my skin, a contrast to the dry heat of my thoughts. My hair is heavy with moisture, clinging like memories that refuse to wash away. I don't need a grand gesture or some poetic line about destiny. I just need this moment where the air feels thick enough to touch.

Then he appears at the edge, not with a rehearsed smile but with a look that says he’s as tired as I am. He doesn't reach for my hand; he simply exists in my space. It’s a subtle seduction of presence—the kind that bypasses the clichés and goes straight to the bone. In this pool, among the ghosts of our separate lives, we find a shared warmth that isn't about ownership. It’s about two people choosing to be still in a world that demands movement.

Editor: Sharp Anna