The Ascension of an Iced Latte Afternoon

I watch a single raindrop climb backward up the glass, defying every law I was taught in school. The city outside is heavy with gray concrete and rushing footsteps, but here, inside this amber-lit sanctuary, my soul has begun to unmoor itself from the earth.
My fingers curl around the plastic cup—not as a grip, but as an anchor for something that wants to drift away. I sip through the straw and feel the cold caffeine rise like tiny bubbles of light in my chest, lifting me inches above the wooden table until the air tastes of vanilla and quiet longing.
You are not here yet, but your ghost is already floating around me—a fragrance of sandalwood and old books that pulls at my hair, urging me to ascend. I trace a heart on the fogged window with one finger; it does not stay flat against the pane, but seems to ripple outward into the sky, expanding like an interstellar bloom.
When you finally walk through the door, your gaze will lock onto mine and gravity will simply cease to exist. We won't need chairs or ground beneath our feet. I can feel my heart becoming a helium balloon in a storm of affection—weightless, breathless, drifting upward toward a ceiling that is no longer there.

Editor: Gravity Rebel