Thawing Under Glass

The water is tepid, a stark contrast to the sterile chill of my office tower. Here, amidst the jungle foliage trapped under glass, heat feels like an intruder I've invited in.

He watches from the terrace above. He doesn't speak; he simply understands that my armor has dissolved into this floral pattern clinging to my skin. In a city defined by cold steel and indifference, warmth is a rare commodity we trade only with absolute strangers who know how to wait for us to breathe.

Editor: Cold Brew