The Arrow of Soft Whispers

The air in the studio tastes of floor wax and old dreams, a quiet sanctuary where time stretches like taffy. My fingers ache slightly against the wood—a grounding hum that keeps my heart from fluttering too wildly out into the rafters.

I draw back the string not to strike at targets or win trophies, but to anchor myself in this singular moment of stillness. Every breath is a lesson in patience; every pull of the bow is an invitation for you to notice me without words. Outside these walls, the city screams with neon and hurry—a chaotic symphony that makes my chest tight like a knot.

But here? Here, I am just a girl aiming at your shadow. My eyes trace the curve of the arrow's path, imagining it carrying all the unspoken things I’ve gathered in my pocket over these long months: the way you take your coffee black but leave room for one sugar cube; the way you look when sleep is still clinging to your lashes.

The target isn't a circle of paper. It’s that small, soft space between us where our secrets live. If I let go now, would the arrow find its home? Or would it simply hover in the air forever, vibrating with my longing?

I release—not yet. Let me hold this tension just a second longer. Because sometimes, the most beautiful kind of healing isn't hitting the mark; it’s knowing exactly where you want to land.

Editor: Cat-like Muse