Sunlight on Quiet Water

The city outside the glass walls is always screaming, a relentless tide of deadlines and neon lights. But here, in this blue sanctuary, everything slows down to the rhythm of my own breath.
I wore yellow today—the color of old postcards and morning light. I didn't do it for anyone; I did it because I wanted to feel like a flicker of warmth against the sterile tiles of the indoor pool.
You were there, leaning against the far wall with that familiar, tired smile. We haven't spoken in weeks, yet we occupy this space together as if no time has passed at all. There is something profoundly healing about a silence that doesn't need to be filled.
As I sat on the edge of the water, feeling the cool air brush against my skin and the sun warming my shoulders, I watched you watching me. No grand gestures were made; no desperate promises whispered into the wind. We simply existed in the same orbit.
I think that is how love should be: like a slow-steeping tea, allowed to develop its flavor without rush or force. If we drift apart, let us drift quietly. But for now, under this pale light, I am content to just be seen by you.

Editor: The Tea Room