The Afterglow of Yesterday's Promise

I woke up with the taste of expensive red wine and your skin still lingering on my tongue, a sweet residue that refused to wash away. My head is heavy—not from sleep, but from the weight of all those whispered secrets we traded under neon lights while the city hummed its indifferent song.
So I dressed in something soft, almost fragile, like an afterthought. I walked through this temple courtyard feeling half-awake and entirely present, my heels clicking against stone that had seen a thousand years of longing. The air is crisp but carries a hint of old incense and new beginnings.
I hold your letter—the one you left on the nightstand beside two glasses of lukewarm water—up to the light like it's some sacred text. Your handwriting is messy, rushed, full of promises that feel too good to be true in this pale morning glow.
Standing here, balanced on one foot as if trying not to disturb the silence around me, I realize my heart isn't racing anymore; it’s just steady and warm. You didn't just leave a note; you left an anchor. In a city that moves too fast for anyone to notice who is missing, you managed to make time stand still.
I close my eyes and lean back into the breeze, feeling like I am floating between two worlds: the one where we are strangers in high-rises, and this quiet space where your love smells like rain on hot pavement.

Editor: Dusk Till Dawn