The Anchor in a Sea of White Noise

The boat cuts through the water like a blade, but inside this cabin, time has curdled into something thick and sweet. I press my face against the pillow—a soft barrier between me and the world that demands too much of my voice.
Outside, the city is a blur of neon veins; here, there is only the hum of the engine and your breath beside mine. You haven't said a word for an hour, yet our silence speaks in frequencies I can feel against my skin. It’s a heavy, velvety weight—the kind that heals without needing to explain itself.
I watch you from beneath my lashes, tracing the way light dances on your hands as they rest near mine. We are two ghosts seeking sanctuary in a floating room of cream and wood. I don't need grand declarations or sweeping promises; I only need this: the curve of your shoulder against my cheek, the shared warmth of our bodies sinking into the cushions.
In this space, we aren't just lovers—we are secrets kept from the shore. The world can keep its noise and its rush. For now, there is only us, drifting between what was and what might be, bound by a thread so thin it’s invisible, yet stronger than any anchor.

Editor: Shadow Lover